Gloaming
by Armand Malfoy
Summary: Sequel to Lachrymose; Harry at Christmas + Snape back in the picture + Arienette + unforseen doom = Not a Happy Holiday
1. Default Chapter

Gloaming Part One   
Say Good Bye On A Night Like This 

AN: The sequel to Lachrymose, takes place in December of 2003. This has been way harder to write than Lachrymose, probably because I have so many ideas I want to work in. I've been on a constant diet of Perrier and sleep deprivation getting it written. If you like it there can be more. I've got ideas for more parts, and I'd like to make this part of a series if there's anyone who would actually read that. Feedback?   
On a slightly different note, I wrote most of this BEFORE OotP came out. Now, I've gone back and changed things, but there are obviously going to be some gaping holes here. Like, for example, why Sirius is alive, the details of the war, things like that. I'm going to be using OotP for some background and whatnot, but otherwise ignoring it. 

I. 

I suppose my first mistake of the night was leaving my flat. Galatea was sleeping peacefully on my chair, occasionally twitching in her dreams. The flat was warm, comfortable, the perfect place to curl up with a book in trousers and a t-shirt and just forget about the outside world. 

But Alarbus and Ron were insistent that I attend Seamus' party. So here I am, on Christmas Eve, dressed in scratchy green robes, trying to smile and make small talk with the various co-workers I spend my days attempting to ignore, and attempting to look interested as Abernathy's personal assistant explains how to do The Time Warp. I will never, as long as I live, attend another party. 

My second mistake was probably drinking so much. I'm not quite drunk, but I'm definitely not sober. It makes my mouth feel dry and my head feel all achy, and I just want to lie down and go to sleep. Which Ron will not allow. He's noticed me standing by myself, leaning against the wall and dropping off, and he comes over and drags me onto the terrace. 

"Come on Harry," he says, trying to sound encouraging and cheerful. "There's some mistletoe between the living room and the kitchen, and Alarbus has kind of been hitting on you…" 

"Ron don't be an idiot," I snap. Alarbus has been anything but hitting on me and we both know it. At least, I think we both know it. I really shouldn't have had so much to drink. 

"Okay, well, whatever Harry, but you're bringing down the party." 

"In that case I'll go home." 

"Like hell you will!" His face is flushed red. "You've been drifting about like a zombie, snapping at everyone who so much as says hello to you. Now, as near as I can tell, there is nothing physically the matter with you, so get out there and shag something." Flustered, he gestures madly with his hands as I watch, one eyebrow raised and a bemused expression plastered onto my face. 

"I like how you've linked my mental instability with my inherent need for sex. Tell me Ron, have you ever heard of Freud?" 

"Goddamn it Harry! You sound just like Snape!" He slams his fist against the rail and goes back inside without looking back. I remain where I stand, frozen by his words. Snape. Of course. I can never get far enough away from the memory of him. The dreams have stopped, at any rate. That doesn't necessarily mean anything though, since I've been taking a potion for dreamless sleep. 

There's been no word of Snape in all these long months since he disappeared. Life has gone back to normal, or as normal as it ever was. And now it's Christmas; undoubtedly the most depressing holiday when you have no one to spend it with. Seamus and Alarbus are going back home, and Ron will be flooing to his house early tomorrow morning. He invited me to come along, but it's not my family and the last thing I need is to be coddled and made to feel like the orphan I've always been. In theory I could go to Hogwarts and stay with Remus and Sirius, but I think we all know that won't happen. 

It's fucking freezing outside, so I go in, closing the door gently behind me. The guests appear to be doing the Time Warp. Again. I sigh and head to the kitchen, because Goddamnit, too much to drink is never enough. 

Alarbus is standing by the kitchen counter mixing a screwdriver when I come in. "But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you insane," he sings in a frighteningly high-pitched voice before looking up and blushing. "Harry," his voice cracks. "I hadn't realized…er…" 

"Shut up Alarbus," I sigh. "Just give me one of those, will you?" He obediently holds out a drink for me and I down it in one gulp. I become aware that he's staring at me rather fixedly, and it occurs to me that maybe I'm not the only person who's had a bit too much to drink tonight. "Something the matter?" I ask. 

He shakes his head. "No, I'm fine." 

"Glad to hear it," I mutter and pour myself another drink. The music from the next room is blaringly loud, even in here, and it's really beginning to grate on my nerves. "Merlin, does this never end?" 

"We could go upstairs?" he offers. "It might be quieter. And if you want to talk…" 

"I assure you, I do not. But lead the way. The prospect of silence is entirely too tempting to pass up." I sound like a git when I'm drunk, or maybe it's just the mood I'm in. Then again, I've been in this mood for half a year now. 

I follow Alarbus up the stairs and down the hall to Seamus' room. Thankfully, it is very quiet in here. I run my fingers over the bedpost and then catch sight of something glittering from the bed stand. Picking up the handcuffs I snicker mirthlessly. "A few kinks, Seamus?" 

Alarbus chuckles. "Maybe he brought them home from work," he offers. 

"Right, because handcuffs are so incredibly effective on vampires." 

"Maybe they're made of silver," he offers, taking the cuffs from me and stepping perilously close, still smiling. "Harry Potter, I regret to inform you that you are under arrest." 

I smirk up at him dimly. "What? What did I do?" 

"Don't play innocent with me," he admonishes, running a finger down the side of my face. "You know all your crimes perfectly well." 

He's not smiling anymore, a few dark curls of hair falling in front of his brown eyes. His mouth is half open, his breath slightly citric from the orange juice in the screwdrivers. I stop smirking, suddenly aware of how close he is. "Al…" 

"Harry, please," he implores, leaning down until his lips are nearly on mine. "Please." 

* * * 

When we sneak back downstairs an hour later the music is playing at a much lower volume, the party winding down. A few of the guests are lounging on the couch smoking, and a few more are standing at the fireplace bidding their host farewell before flooing to their respective residences. 

Alarbus smiles uncertainly at me and reaches up to clasp my shoulder. "I'll see you later," he says, squeezing lightly before dropping his hand and moving to the fireplace. 

I sigh and turn around, running a hand through my hair. Ron, sitting on the couch next to Abernathy's little secretary-whore, glances up at me and then turns his attention back to the girl. Whatever. 

"Great party, Seamus," I lie. "Thanks for having me." 

"Anytime Harry. You really should get out more," he grins at me, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "So, did you and Al have a good time?" 

If I were capable of flushing I probably would. As it is I'm so far beyond caring that I only manage a shrug before stepping into the floo. 

It isn't that I'm using him, I tell myself as I step out of my fireplace. I mean, he was willing. I respect him. I like him. He's a great guy and all that. It's healthy for me to be with other people. People who are not homicidal maniacs. People my own age, who don't play sick mind games with me. 

It's somehow unsatisfying. 

* * * 

I fix myself pizza and coffee for my Christmas supper. I haven't bothered with a tree this year. Instead, I curl up on the floor in front of the fire in an oversized grey jumper and slacks, Galatea in my lap as I sip my steaming mug of coffee and reflect on how much has changed for me since I was a child. 

Ron had a point, last night. I've really become Snape. I'd been working toward it since we graduated, but it's become even more apparent since the past spring. Maybe seeing him again was all the catalyst needed to drive me insane. There are times I wake up and stare at myself in the mirror and wonder how the fuck I let myself become what I am. What happened to the days when Christmas was magical and parties were wonderful and I actually cared about things? 

It's around one in the afternoon when the phone rings. I answer with a disinterested "Hello?" 

"Harry?" the voice on the other end of the line purrs. I sit up straight, recognizing that voice at once. "Are you still there? Hello?" 

"Snape." 

"Oui, mon cher. But of course." 

"What do you want?" I demand. 

"To wish you a Merry Christmas. What else?" 

His voice sounds strained. In my division we're trained to listen for the subtleties in a person's voice and he's trying to cover up his anxiety, I can tell. He's not such a mystery, I tell myself. He's worried about something and if I keep him on the line long enough, I can discover what it is. 

"Where are you?" I venture. 

"I'll give you three guesses." 

"I'm not playing-" 

"Yes you are. Playing this game with me. You are because if you don't I'll hang up right now." 

"Would that be so awful?" 

"Worse than you can imagine." 

I sigh. What've I got to lose anyway? "Belfast," I guess. 

"Wrong-o, Harry m'boy. Try again." 

"America." 

"Not for a thousand galleons. Last chance." 

I don't bother wondering what will happen if I get this wrong. I've got a fairly good idea. "London." 

"Give the boy a prize," he drawls. "You really ought to go with your first instinct." 

"If I did that you'd be dead right now," I remind him. 

"Touché. Seriously though, Harry, you would never hurt me. Just as I would never hurt you." 

"You broke my nose without much moral anguish," I point out. 

"That was part of a scheme Harry, a scheme. Don't tell me you're upset over that?" 

"Of course not. How could I be when there are so many other things to be upset over? Like, for example, the fact that you ruined my life, killed my friends, led me on a wild goose chase, lied to me, used me to escape, and then came back to mock me. To name a few." 

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and a muffled muttering. He's talking to someone else. Then his voice comes back to me, "How would you feel about taking a vacation?" 

I snort. "Sure. I'll go to Tahiti with you the day hell freezes over and the Chudley Canons win the Quidditch Cup." 

"Not Tahiti," he says. "France." 

And then the phone line goes dead. 

* * * 

I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to ignore the tingling apprehension I can feel running up and down my spine. There's a slight storm outside, which I suppose could account for the sudden disconnection earlier, but I doubt it. I'd be more likely to blame the storm on Snape than the phone going dead on the storm. 

In any event I'm alone, in an apartment, with no method of communication and no one to communicate with, and there's a madman somewhere in the city. Part of me wants to go find him, because it's the heroic thing to do. Or maybe because I'm very bored. The rest of me, however, is quite content to stay in and enjoy my Christmas pizza. 

In the end I don't have to make a choice, because there's a knock at my door while I'm still mulling over the options with a mug of coffee in hand. I stand, warily approaching the door. I know very well that, if it's Snape on the other side, no amount of locks or wards will keep him out. I can't help dragging my feet though. 

Once I'm at the door, wand in hand, I cast a charm to see through the wood like a one way mirror. My heart jumps into my throat and threatens to choke me. It's Snape, all right, but he's not alone. He's got her with him, Arienette, as pretty and young as if she's just stepped out of one of those photographs I've still got hidden away in a drawer at my office. Her dark curls held back with a dark blue silk scarf, her eyes lined with kohl and her mouth plump and red, curled in a secretive smile. She's got on tan suede pants and a white jumper. Snape, standing beside her with his face a mask of youthfully smooth skin, is dressed in black slacks, an elegant black leather jacket, black gloves, and a dark grey scarf. He's smirking, his left hand on the small of her back and the other resting on his hip. He raises an eyebrow and, as I watch, lifts his right hand to wave at me. 

I jump back, startled, and increase the wards on the door. I've no doubt he can break through them, break through the fucking door if he decides. I'm certainly not fooled by the neatness of his clothing, or by his appearance. A wolf in sheep's clothing, I think, but he looks more like a raven than a wolf or a sheep. Maybe a siren, I think, nonsensically, taking a step away from the image of his patient smirk. 

He knocks again, and leans down to whisper in her ear. She listens attentively, then turns her head slightly and looks right into my eyes, smiling. 

With a final, gentle tap on the door, Snape reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wand. His hand closes on the doorknob and I feel my back hit the wall, my mouth dry and my heart racing. I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them wide. No. 

He's standing inside now, holding the door open for her before shutting it carefully and replacing the wards. "It is terribly rude to pretend you're not home to company," he says in mock seriousness. "Especially as we've come such a long way to spend the holidays with you. Arienette," he looks down to her. "Why don't you give Harry our present?" 

Arienette smiles, her teeth perfect white and her lips like a doll's as she extends an open hand, proffering a gaudily wrapped box. Gold paper, red ribbon, and Snape smirking at me. I reach out hesitantly and accept the gift. 

It's a collar, made of some silvery metal with a small, blank, golden tag. I stare. "It's for Galatea," Snape informs me. "You've not bought her a new collar, have you? See, that's very irresponsible of you. Cats like to wander, and if she were picked up people might mistake her for a stray." 

The truth is that I did buy Galatea a collar, a fabric one with a pliable metal tag engraved with her name and my address. She staunchly refused to wear it and shredded it after a day. The one she'd had when I got her had been confiscated as evidence, tested and prodded until it just gave way. 

"It's enchanted," he says, patiently. "It'll fit anything that wears it comfortably and presents the necessary information. It'll fit you, if you try it on." 

My hands move of their own accord, as if under a spell, up to my neck. He smiles indulgently at me, and then at Arienette, whose own little girl smile is all expectance and grace. There's a shiver of fear tracing down my spine, and then the collar snaps shut around my neck. I gasp, out of shock, not discomfort. He was right. I don't feel a thing. 

He takes a step toward me and, as I attempt to move back, I remember that I am effectively cornered. His hand rises and picks up the golden tag as he bends in to examine it. "Henry James Potter," he reads. "1835 Tite Street, London, room 28." 

I jerk convulsively back as his gloved hand trails down my neck, and my head comes in contact with the wall abruptly, causing me to bite my tongue. There's a stinging sensation, and then a coppery taste so I know I've bitten through it. I wince, and he chuckles, dropping his hand and taking a step away. 

"You never did learn to think before you act." 

I remove the collar with shaking hands, gazing at the tag, which is blank again, to no one's surprise but my own. I look up from it, to their identically youthful grins. Swallowing, I harden my gaze and draw myself up. "Get out." 

"Harry," Snape chastises. "It's Christmas!" 

"Take your fucking collar and get the hell out of my life!" I'm on the edge of panic now, not thinking to stun them, or call for help, or even ask one of the thousand questions that keep me up at night. I'd get no answers. It'd be no use. "Get the fuck away from me!" 

Snape's hand closes on my upper arm, his voice low and soothing. "Just calm down Harry. Calm down and everything will be okay." 

I thrash away from him, throwing the collar onto the floor in a glint of silver and gold, my hand rising to point my wand at the center of his chest. "Ava-" 

"Petrificus totalus," he spits out quickly, and the world goes dark around the image of his somber, lineless face. 

II. 

I'm having a dream, for the first time in so long it's almost painful to think of. I'm in a shoddy hotel room alone. There are two beds, one of which I am lying on. The blanket under me smells like cigar smoke and burnt plastic and something else I can't quite place. I don't like whatever it is. The light bulb is too dim to see properly, and it casts an ugly yellow light around the room, as if the puke green carpet and stained walls weren't already hideous enough. I can hear the hum of electricity, of sockets and volts. 

As I look about the room I realize I am not completely alone, as I had at first imagined myself to be. Snape is sitting at a small table, his long legs looking cramped by the severity of his uncomfortable chair. He's got a book in hand, his eyes narrowed as he reads in the dim light, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He's not smoking, just letting the smoke curl up in blue streaks toward the ceiling. 

"I didn't know you smoked," I say, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. My head feels fuzzy, sort of like it's lifted off my shoulders. 

He looks up at my comment, his eyes adjusting to looking further than a few inches as he removes the fag and taps it against the ashtray. "I only started a few weeks ago," he explains. He sounds dazed too. I nod, and he picks the book back up then, wrinkling his forehead, lays it down again and grinds the cigarette into the ashtray. "Need any company over there?" 

I shrug. "It's not a very big bed." 

"Big enough for two," he lifts an eyebrow. I roll my eyes and scoot over, and he grins, slinking over like a black coyote to slip next to me, his body pushed right up next to mine. He's warm, and I realise how cold it was without him. I roll onto my side and hold onto him, his arm coming round to brush through my hair. 

"You dream a lot, don't you?" he asks after a pause. 

"Used to," I mumble against his shoulder. 

"About me?" 

The door jerks open and we both jump up. He slides out of the bed gracefully to stand beside Arienette, who is shutting the door behind her and rubbing her hands together against the cold. I watch, my eyes frozen open, as he leans in and kisses her full on the mouth. She turns her head politely to the side, that same faint smile on her mouth as she presses a finger against his lips. Both at once, they turn to look at me, and their eyes are more like animals' than humans'. 

All at once I realise: This is no dream. 

* * * 

"There's complicated," Snape says, inhaling shallowly on his fag, "and there's complicated." 

Our current situation is decidedly the latter. Sitting in this dingy motel, with Arienette perched on the arm of his chair, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, and a cigarette in his still gloved hands, he looks like a young king. I'm sitting on the bed with my back against the headrest, trying to decipher what the hell is going on. I've given up on ever finding my wand. 

"There are certain situations, things that took place before you were born, but are now coming into play. Schemes that were never meant to be carried out have been triggered irrevocably, unless we, or rather I, do something about it." 

He fixes me with a glare quite reminiscent of the one he used as a professor, and I'm caught off balance, still groggy from curses, sleep and hang over. "This is quite literally a quest to save the world." 

I snort. "And why am I along? Did you miss me that terribly?" 

"My opinion of you not withstanding," he sighs, "very bluntly put, we will be needing your help." 

"My help." 

"More specifically we will be needing you to get us help." 

"I tried to get you help," I mutter under my breath. He ignores me. 

"Before we can continue on our perilous quest, our heroic mission, our whatever it is you and your fool friends got up to a thousand times at school, before we get down to business, Harry, I have to know I can trust you." 

I let out a loud, harsh laugh. "Ha! You have to know if you can trust me? You have to know if you can trust me?" I can feel myself bordering on hysteria, and I take a deep breath before fixing him with a sneer. "Are we forgetting that you lied to me and used me after I offered to help you?" 

"We are not forgetting anything, Harry," he growls. His voice is like rocks wrapped in velvet, and it leaves an unpleasant feeling in my ears. Somehow, the way he says my first name he might as well be calling me 'Mister Potter' again. "We are especially not forgetting that clever little trick you pulled in Godric's Hollow." 

I snort. "So what do you suggest? A trust fall?" 

He sniffs haughtily. "Please." 

"Well then what?" I demand. This is getting insane. I don't have the energy to convince convicts of my devotion to them. "What will appease you? What will set your mind at ease? Do you want we should share blood? Or maybe I should drink veritaserum? Or you can put me under Imperius? What is it you want from me?" 

He smiles, his eyes flashing darkly from beneath long lashes. "I've already got it." 

* * * 

Snape's downstairs paying our bill. Arienette, holding his wand, is sitting watch over me from a chair by the door, and I can't decide whether or not she's an actual threat. She doesn't feel like a witch to me, doesn't feel magical. There's nothing coming from her, no supernatural energy. If I had to guess I'd say she's a Muggle, and that Snape wasn't lying about that part. 

Then again, it doesn't mean she's not dangerous. The wand itself is no threat, but, as I am without one, we would have to fight each other as Muggles. And Snape doesn't strike me as the sort to choose weak companions. I get the feeling that Arienette can hold her own, with or without magic. 

She smiles sweetly at me as I am thinking on it. Her mouth is small and perfectly curved and symmetrical, like a doll's mouth. It looks painted on. Thinking about Snape kissing her, I suddenly want to rip it off. It's an unsettling feeling, to get jealous over a man who ruined your life. I must be more fucked up than I thought. Maybe Ron was right about me. 

Snape chooses this moment to return, clapping his gloved hands together and glancing briskly around the room. "Everything's settled," he informs us. "I've procured a vehicle for us. Arienette, dear, would you mind?" He hands her the keys and she returns his wand, leaving the room with a final glancing smile directed at no one in particular. "Now, Harry, I'm going to need you to cooperate with me. It will be much more pleasant that way." 

"Where are we going?" I ask in a voice scratchy. 

"We're visiting an old friend," he says, holding out a hand and helping me to my feet. "We would apparate, but there are certain complications to that option, namely Arienette's notable inability to become to first Muggle capable of apparation and the wards around our destination." 

"She is a Muggle then," I remark blandly. 

"Oh, not everything I told you was a lie," he informs me, looping his arm through mine and steering me out the door. "Most of it was at least half true. We can talk about that later though. It's a long ride to Malfoy Manor, you know." 

* * * 

Car ride chatter. Arienette is driving, Snape riding shotgun, controlling the radio station and flipping between channels every five minutes or so. I'm here in the back seat, wallowing in leather interior, sick to fuck of being kidnapped. 

From the front seat, Snape says, "Maybe you'll develop Stockholm's Syndrome and we can have some real fun." 

"Very funny," I say. I don't get it, but I'm not telling him that. I can just hear what he'd say, if he could read my thoughts right now. 'You do a very convincing job of pretending to be marginally less idiotic than you were back at Hogwarts, but you and I both know it's just an act so why not stop acting like a tough guy or an angst ridden teenager, hmm? Come on, Harry, you can be honest with me.' 

"You do a very poor job of imitating me," he says, presently, and lights a cigarette. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Not that I'm not flattered," he adds, not turning around. I glare daggers at the back of his head, at his stupid clean hair. "I'm just saying, you can't really hope to pull off an image that took me decades to create. Why don't you try finding yourself?" 

"Shut the fuck up," I say, and look out the window. 

He snickers from the front seat. "Don't you have anything else to say to me?" 

"Yeah, get the hell out of my life." 

"Tut-tut, my love. You're becoming terribly repetitive." 

I don't reply. It's what he wants me to do. When we're talking he knows he can fuck up my mind. Words are all his power, have always been his forte. When I was a child he used them to lash out, to hurt and break and wreak general havoc on the students. He used them to retain control, just like he's doing now. Provoking. He's always lying. I don't think there is a truth to him. 

At least, I don't want to think there is.   


III. 

We stop again around midnight when it looks like Arienette is going to fall asleep at the wheel. I'm not fairing much better myself. I haven't had nearly enough caffeine today. Snape looks reluctant to drive, so we end up exiting the highway and driving in aimless circles around the same few blocks before Snape manages to point out a hotel he likes and Arienette pulls up to it and we partake in the wonder that is valet parking. 

I'm too tired to really be aware of what's going on. Arienette leads me over to a couch in the lobby while Snape checks us in. I'm almost going out like a light, and when she scoots closer and puts a hand on my leg I don't notice as much as I should. In fact, by the time Snape comes back I've got my head resting on her shoulder and she's humming softly to me, like a mother, petting my hair. 

"Well, this is just adorable," Snape drawls and extends both his hands to help us to our feet. "My two favorite people enjoying one another so thoroughly. Come on then, I've got us a suite." 

In the elevator I reflect on how we must look. There's Arienette and Snape, impeccably dressed and darkly attractive. There's me, in my slacks and large sweater, looking shy and harmlessly attractive. We're just three young people, when you look at us like this, but I somehow feel like I look younger than both of them. 

The suite Snape has obtained has two rooms, one huge bed. I lie down on the couch when I realize the situation, but Snape shakes his head and pulls me to my feet. "We can't have the saviour of the Wizarding World sacrificing his back, can we? I will not tolerate your risking a crick in your neck." 

I somehow manage a sneer and then trundle into the bathroom and vomit. 

* * * 

Snape takes nearly an hour in the bathroom. Arienette and I limited our showers and other toiletry needs to a brief twenty minutes each, I think inanely. Why is he so special? Keeping that hair clean must take an awful lot of work. I snicker at the image of Snape in a shower cap, before rolling onto my side. 

I'm lying as far from Arienette as humanly possible. It's not that I don't like her-I just don't know what to make of her. I went for so long believing she was some sort of fairy tale, or just another lie that Snape brilliantly constructed, I'm not sure even now if I believe in her or not. She's wearing white cotton underwear and a plain white bra, sitting up in bed under the covers and flipping through channels on the television, pausing now and then with her head cocked curiously to the side and her hair, now free, falling into her face and over her eyes. 

She turns to me, her mouth quirked up in that smooth, guileless smile of hers. It is unsettling, the frequency with which her face falls back into this uniform expression. I get the feeling, however, that of all people she is genuine, unguarded. In some aspect she means her smile with the innocence found only in the very young or the mentally retarded. She appears to be neither, but there's no telling what company Snape might keep. 

She's still smiling at me, so I sneer and roll over so that my back is facing her. "It's no use pretending you don't want him," she says, her voice accented heavily. French. I roll back, looking at her curiously. It's the first time I've heard her speak. The accent reminds me of something Snape had said, about meeting her in France. Maybe some of what he said was true… 

"I don't want him," I retort belatedly. 

Her smile doesn't waver. "We all know you do. I know, he knows, so it's no use at all pretending that you don't know." 

"What are you, a bloody telepath?" I snap. 

She grins and lifts an eyebrow gently. "Maybe so." 

Snape chooses this moment to make his entrance in a cloud of water vapor and steam from the bathroom, wearing black boxers and a plain white undershirt. He sighs, throwing his outer clothes onto a chair before leaning over to kiss Arienette on the cheek and crawling into bed between us. 

"Having fun without me?" He lifts an eyebrow, casting his rakish smile between us. 

"I want to go home," I say, though I know it won't matter. "They'll be missing me soon. Alarbus was going to call me later, and when I don't answer he'll know something is up." The fact that I don't expect Alarbus to call, and that, should he not receive an answer, he would interpret it as merely my moodiness, does not faze me one bit at this point. "And work starts in a week. If I'm not there-" 

"Where would they look for you? Would they look for you? There's the question. You're the boy hero. You can miss as many days of work as you like and be completely excused. They'll think you're on vacation." 

"Not Ron. Or Seamus and Alarbus. They'll find me." 

"You could get away right now if you tried," he says, leaning over me and switching off the lamp. "Truth is you're curious. You let one chance with me get away from you, and now you want to know what you missed out on." 

"Fuck you," I seethe. "I missed out on your lies and your mind games, and nothing else." 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." I can hear his smirk. "Good night Harry." 

* * * 

Snape orders breakfast; bacon, eggs, sausage and toast, and we're on the road by ten. Arienette is driving again, Snape at his perch up front, controlling the radio and temperature. I'm in the back, glowering away as best I can. We're making our way, Snape tells me, to the Chunnel. Malfoy Manor is further than I would have guessed. 

I fall asleep before we've been on the road an hour. It must be the lack of coffee. ("Coffee creates weakness," Snape had said at breakfast when I sulkily requested a latte. "You'll learn to survive without it or not at all. I will not tolerate an addiction." And he lit a cigarette and walked away in an unnecessary huff.) 

I slide easily into a dream about Hogwarts last spring. Sirius is there, and Remus, both smiling benignly at me and inviting me to tea and supper and holidays in Southern France. Sirius' grin is so big it's just about cracking him in half, opening up his head and spilling everything inside him out. 

It's something I think about from time to time. After last spring I've kept in erratic touch with my godfather and his lycanthrope companion. Letters by owl, a phone call now and again, the occasional lunch out. I won't go back to Hogwarts, for them or anyone else. So it's been sporadic bursts of communication. Most of our conversations skate over emotions, like Sirius' well wishes and cracking smiles. Remus is always on the edge of things, and I can't help him hating him, just a little, for what he's done to the man I used to look up to. 

I'm deep in this dream of well wishes and smiles, and no one bothers to wake me till we're through the Chunnel and in France. In fact, it's around nine at night when they do bother to wake me, and then it's only because we're stopping for a very late dinner at some fluorescent lit diner. Peachy. 

I drag myself out of the car and follow Arienette and Snape into the eatery. It's all bright lights and plastic surfaces. I hate it. The man behind the cash register seems to hate it just as much as I do. "Qu'avez-vous?" he says listlessly. 

"Deux sandwiches, trois milkshakes, une partie de ce pâté en croûte," Arienette orders for us. 

Snape takes hold of my hand and tugs me toward a booth. "I don't know about you," he says, "but I murder the French language, so it's probably best we wait here for her." He smiles at me warmly. "Come on. It's not that bad." 

"I've been kidnapped by my ex-potions professor. What could be worse?" 

"I could be Voldemort." His teeth glitter in his smile. "It could be lots worse." 

"Food's here," Arienette announces, trying to keep all the plates together. Snape jumps up to help her, handing me a thick vanilla milkshake, a ham sandwich and a slice of blueberry pie. I sneer at it, then give up when I realize no one is looking at me. Might as well eat. 

I'm finished with the sandwich and working on the milkshake when they start talking. Arienette is sipping her own milkshake through its clear straw, making the straw appear opaque and white. "Qu'allons-nous faire avec le garçon?" she asks. 

"La patience," Snape replies, cutting his pie with a fork. "Nous aurons besoin de lui plus tard." 

Non mon amour," her eyes flash. "Vous aurez besoin de lui plus tard. Vous avez besoin de lui maintenant. Ne me pensez pas ne voient pas où ceci va." Pausing, to eat a bite of pie, she sizes him up with her eyes, that smile creeping dangerously over her expression. "Naturellement, j'approuve." 

"Rien n'est caché de vous." 

Not understanding a word of French, I am generally pissed off at being excluded from the conversation. I feel like a child being kept in the dark. Sulkily, like a child, I push my milkshake over and watch the cold liquid spread rapidly and drip into Snape's lap.   
  
  
  
  



	2. The Way That You Look At Me Now

Gloaming Part Two   
The Way That You Look At Me Now Makes Me Wish I Was You 

AN: I'm really sorry for the terrible French in the previous chapter. Despite my best efforts I cannot remember how to say more than three things in French, and none of them are useful in the least. Also, regarding Arienette, I promise you here and now that she is not a Mary Sue. What assurance can I offer? Well, none really, except my word. She is not a person I am overly fond of; quite frankly she gives me the creeps. However, she is a part of the plot, and I do need her. So…please believe me when I tell you that she's not going to become some half veela exotic dancer plot twist. And if you like her, that's cool. Thank you.   
I. 

Malfoy Manor is a white building stretching up three stories and an attic. It has a set of dungeons that rival Hogwarts', complete with torture chamber and barred cells and, of course, a top-notch potions lab. Lucius Malfoy met his sticky end years ago, as Snape reminds us with a toothy grin. His wife, never a branded Death Eater, lingers in the Manor, roaming massive empty expanses of land inside and around the Manor. There's a courtyard, Snape tells us, which was once considered one of the Wizarding World's most beautiful locations. Since Voldemort's first rise it has fallen into disrepair, into crumbling stone fountains and broken marble statues hiding beneath a jungle of exotic and overgrown weeds. 

Arienette pulls the car into a huge circle drive in front of the Manor, once used for carriages at the Malfoys' many social events, Snape whispers in my ear, and we get out and head up the huge stone steps of the porch. The grass on the lawn is overgrown, tangled in on itself. The Doric columns supporting the porch roof are chipped and grey, like an ancient ruin. 

I'm expecting a house elf to open the doors, so I'm surprised when the lady of the house appears before us, her blonde hair short, her slim shoulders slumped. She's dressed all in white; white skirt reaching to the floor, white blouse, bare white feet and hands. Her eyes are a pale grey, blinking out at us like they've had the colour washed out. A strand of diamonds glitters demonically around her neck. 

"What do you want, Severus?" 

"Narcissa, my dear, it is always a pleasure to chat with you, but I really must insist that you let us in at once." 

She sniffs haughtily, looking us up and down. "A Muggle? I'd heard rumours about you, Severus, but I didn't think it possible you'd have sunk this low." She shakes her head. "No. I will not allow a Muggle in my husband's house." 

As she begins to shut the door, Severus sneaks a boot forward and into the doorjamb. "Don't fool yourself Narcissa. How many Muggles do you think Lucius took on as lovers? Did you even have a key to all the rooms in this house? How many did he forbid you access to? Besides," his voice smoothes as he glances back at Arienette. "Arienette is no ordinary Muggle." 

"Be that as it may, I will not have you three tromping through my house destroying everything I have worked so hard to keep in order." 

"I need access to the lab, Narcissa. It is a matter of the utmost importance. I'm sure even you can appreciate that." He sneers, his face twisting up in a way that strikes me as so familiar it is almost comforting. Beside me, Arienette stiffens. I feel like smirking. She doesn't recognize this Snape; he's not her suave and glowing golden boy of youth now. 

"You're welcome to come in, Severus. You and the boy. She stays outside," Narcissa's grey eyes narrow, "like a dog." 

I expect him to scream at her. His face looks like he wants to. Instead he takes a step back, expressionless again. Arienette is still tense as a board beside me. "You'll let us all in," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "This concerns you every bit as much as it concerns these two. You remember, I am sure, a certain experiment of Avery and your husband's." Her eyes grow wider and he smirks. "Yes, of course you do. I'm sure you remember everything about it, from the stench creeping up the dungeon stairs to the screams to the disappearing house elves. And I'm sure you remember how strongly Lucius objected to your setting foot outside your bedroom door." 

He steps closer, putting one gloves hand on her shoulder as he leans in to speak. I can just catch his words. "Or how upset he was when you disobeyed, sneaking downstairs like a wayward schoolgirl in your white slippers. The way he lashed out at you. I'm sure you remember something of that. You've still got the scars." 

She steps back, shivering and opening the door resentfully. "Fine," she says hastily. "Fine you may all stay. What difference does it make now he is dead? Burn down the house for all I care. Just do what you must and leave me alone." 

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy," Snape says, with the barest hint of sarcasm before shoving his way through the door with Arienette and I following close behind. 

* * * 

Snape shows us to our rooms. I get the feeling that he knows his way around this place very well. Narcissa, for her part, is doing everything in her power to pretend we don't exist. Snape's picked out three rooms next to one another on the third floor. It comforts me a great deal to know I won't be spending the night with him again. It comforts me more than I like to admit that he won't be spending the night with Arienette. 

Arienette has barricaded herself in her room, in fact. She seemed terribly shaken up after Narcissa's frigid welcome, though I think her anger was directed more at Snape than at our ungracious hostess. I'm not sure why, but I think Snape senses it as well, his mouth drawn in an angry line and his eyes vacant of that playful sadism that was such a vital part of him not so long ago. He opens the door to my room and ushers me in. 

"I'll see what I can do about getting you some clothing," he says, inspecting the dusty expanse of the oak wardrobe. "For now try on anything you can find in this room or my own, and if it fits you're welcome to keep it. Narcissa probably won't notice." 

"Whose clothes are they?" I wrinkle my nose, pulling out a blue jacket about three sizes too big for me. 

"They were Lucius'. And mine. And various other Death Eater's. Oh, Merlin, that was Knott's." He chuckles and takes a paisley button up shirt from the wardrobe. "There should be robes in here somewhere…here we go." He pulls out an armful of dusty but doubtlessly expensive robes, spreading them over the bed. "There are more in my room. Take anything you want." 

"Snape?" I take a step toward him, suddenly exhausted. "What am I doing here?" 

He smiles, sadly, and brings his hand up to cradle the side of my face. "You're helping me save the world." 

"I don't want to be kept in the dark any longer," I tell him vehemently. "I'm sick of your secrets and lies." 

"I would tell you everything," he says soothingly, "if I thought that I could trust you." 

"If I give myself to you completely? If I swear myself to you, unwaveringly? Then what?" I lean into his touch, eyes shut, blood pounding through my head. What am I saying? 

"Then we would both be miserable." 

* * * 

The courtyard is a wreck, as expected. The air inside is too close, too stuffy. Snape has been locked in the dungeon lab for an hour, and I've just about gone mad going through old clothes. So here I am, reluctantly dressed in Death Eatery finery, in the decaying courtyard of a dead enemy. 

The season seems suddenly not applicable. I'm overdressed. Narcissa must have the Manor charmed, or at least this courtyard garden, because it feels humid, hot, a constant jungle summer in this disintegrating paradise. Shedding my heavy outer cloak I take a look around at the cracks in the stone path, the ruined fountain and broken marble birdbath. "Why not have the house elves fix it?" I mutter to myself. 

"Why not indeed," she answers, stepping out from a clutter of wisteria and dogwood. Startled, I step backward. Her eyes run over me coolly, calculatingly. "Avery's shirt. Lucius' robe and tie. Let me guess; you've gotten into Snape's trousers?" She raises a blonde eyebrow. 

I stare, blankly, unsure of what to say. She looks younger than I'd expected. She looks like she's in her mid-thirties, which doesn't add up. Lucius was in his mid forties when he died five years ago, and Snape himself would be in his early forties if it weren't for the damned charms he's wearing. She's too young and too pretty to be trapped someplace like this. 

"Have you ever heard of tulips?" Narcissa fingers a dark red petal delicately. "They open up to catch the sunlight, cast apart their petals in an attempt to stay alive, to bask in light. But, over time, they get older and weaker, too used to staying open. And then they can't close, ever again, and fall apart until there's nothing left." She pauses, looking up at me from behind her choppy blonde locks. 

"Fascinating?" I offer. 

"You want to know if I've gone mad," she says, running a small white hand over the cool edge of a cracked statue. "Frankly, I think you're mad to follow a lunatic like Severus." 

"Believe me, I agree with you," I mutter. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what's going on?" 

She raises her eyebrow again. "You mean you don't know?" 

"He showed up at my door on Christmas with his girlfriend and dragged me across the continent insisting we were saving the world." 

"Why'd you go with him then, hmm?" She sighs, smoothing her skirt with an irritated gesture and shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "He is, you know. Saving the world." 

"From what? How? I don't understand anything that's happened." 

"During the beginning of the first war," she says, with a dreamy sort of expression. "They were just like kids. The Death Eaters, by and large, were teenagers, Lucius being the one obvious exception. They were geniuses though, all of them, in one subject or another. Avery had a good mind for equations and ingredients, a good memory. Knott was known for his transfiguration skills. Lucius was an excellent manipulator, and very capable when given the right orders. Severus, you know, was the potions prodigy. Everyone had their skill to use in aiding the cause. 

"They would spend months holed up here, during Ministry raids. The Ministry couldn't reach outside the country as easily then as it can now, so they were all safe here. Lucius would throw drinking parties to keep them entertained, and they'd travel a few miles to the village down the road and wreak general havoc. Those were the good days of the war, the fun days. Everyone safe and happy, no one worried or upset." She sighs wistfully. "I was just a little thing then, one of his more recent acquisitions, but I knew when he was happy. 

"Well, one night they got to thinking. Maybe they could combine all their talents, make something so huge and terrifying that Voldemort would praise them for it. I think they wanted to frighten their leader a little as well. So they locked themselves up in the dungeons and got to work. 

"After the first day I started noticing the smell. It was hideous, a rotting meat sort of stench rising up the stairs. It made me dizzy, smelling it too long. Lucius emerged that first night, looking worn out and messy, and ordered me to stay in my bed chambers until he gave word that I could come out again. I didn't know why, thought he was upset over something. From the house elves I gathered bits of information though. They were making…something…in the dungeons." She shivers, clutching her arms. 

"It wasn't long before I couldn't take not knowing. I wanted to find out what was happening down there, what they were doing. So I crept downstairs, trying not to make any sound. The smell was worse than before. The lights downstairs were all off, curtains drawn, totally silent. As I stood at the foot of the stairs I could hear whispers though, coming from the dungeons. 

"I crept closer, still silent. They were talking excitedly downstairs. Lucius' voice rang out. 'It's the perfect weapon. It can never be used against us,' he said. 'I say we put it into use at once.' 

" 'What about Voldemort?' Avery's voice wavered up to me. 'You're talking treason. It'll kill him. His father…' 

" 'Fuck Voldemort,' Lucius replied. 'He can't stop this. Do you want to serve a mudblood?' 

" 'Then what about your wife?' Severus asked. 'Or your son? Or Bellatrix? We can't use this now. Not yet. Not until we have more control over its effects.' 

"I had walked down the first few stairs to hear them better, and I must have set off an alarm, because the next thing I knew they went silent, and then Lucius came racing out, wand raised. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and he looked like a frenzied beast. I thought at first that he didn't recognize me," her voice cracks. "He hit me hard. I was used to hexes, but not physical violence. Not something that left marks like that. And he just kept saying, 'You don't know what you could have done. You don't know.' 

"The other Death Eaters had come up to watch by this point, and I think he might have killed me if Severus hadn't pulled him off. His fingers left bruises all up my arm, and he'd clawed through my night shift, right through to my skin and he'd ripped apart my back. There are scars…" 

She falters, her voice drifting off into silence as she wrings her hands. "What did they make?" I hear myself ask. 

She looks up, a thin smile on her face. "Severus and Lucius explained it to me later, after the others had gone home. It was something between a virus and a beast. Severus and Avery had developed a virus that targeted only those with Muggle blood. Mudbloods and Muggles were the most obvious victims, but it was more refined than that. Anyone with less than pure blood would be in danger. No matter how small the trace, they were still at risk. That's why I was in danger of it," she smiles sourly. 

"Pure blood is hard to find. Nearly all the true purebloods have been killed, thanks to the exterminations of Death Eaters. It was a little family secret. Back in the Dark Ages my family line was tainted. One of my ancestors bred with a young witch whose family came from Greece. They were a good lineage, but it was later discovered that there had, at one time, been an infiltration of half blood into their own. The impurity was carried by my mother, who passed it on to my sisters and I, who, in turn, passed it onto our children. Those of us that have children. Lucius didn't know until after I was pregnant, or he never would have stood for it. It's so far removed you'd think it wouldn't count, but it does. 

"The virus itself was hideous. Knott, Bellatrix, and Mulciber had acquired and enchanted a half dozen mermaid foetuses. Nasty, smelling things. I'll never know how they got them. At any rate, they put them into stasis until Severus and Avery had created the viral strain, and then the foetuses were injected, made hosts to the disease. They were put back into stasis, inactive until such a time as they were needed. 

"The mermaid foetuses were not affected by the virus. Their blood was immune. However, they could pass the disease along via touch. Everything and anything they touched was infected. And the virus has a one hundred percent fatality. The plan was to wait, to keep things undercover until an antidote could be developed, should it be needed, and then to unleash the monstrosity upon the world. 

"The foetuses were lost, gradually. Lucius wanted to keep them all under lock and key in the dungeons, but Severus needed one to develop an antidote. He claimed to have written a flaw into the equation so that the virus was not invincible. However, he has not, to my knowledge, created a cure. I don't know what happened to four of them. One remains in the dungeons here, and I assume that it is upon this foetus that Severus, so completely pure and immune, is working to develop a cure. To save your life, I suppose, or that Muggle's. Not mine." 

I'm frozen where I stand. Snape's confession comes back to me, the mermaid foetus my seventh year…. My mother had been a Muggle born. I shiver with a renewed sense of dread. 

Narcissa is smirking at me. "You look good in those clothes," she tells me. "It's a pity you weren't born pure."   


II. 

Arienette won't come out of her room. After Narcissa's little revelation I lock myself in and wait for something to happen. Of course, nothing does, and the day passes more slowly in my room than in the world outside it. I wander the corridors for hours, thinking about the Aryan Death Eater youth and imagining the cream of the crop gone horribly wrong. Then I try to get Arienette to come out and talk to me, maybe reveal a few more of Snape's secrets, but she's not about to talk. She must know what we're here for. 

I go downstairs and sit at the dining room table, staring ahead and not thinking of anything that's happening. I think about London instead, and what people must be thinking. Ron is probably furious at me right now. He's usually furious at me, and he'll be even more so if he or Alarbus have been trying to get hold of me. 

Alarbus, of course, is probably shrugging this aside with a graceful little move of his shoulders, smiling awkwardly and saying that it isn't important. It was fun while it lasted. He made me no promises, gave me no words of love. This is stupid. If I had half a brain I'd be in London, curled up in front of my fire in his arms, not even having to pretend that I was content. If I had half a brain Snape wouldn't be alive to kidnap me. 

That's a terrifying thought, I realise. A world without Snape would be a world I don't want to live in. He's my one remaining enemy, now that Voldemort is gone. And Ron is right, I'm only alive when I'm fighting with him. Just being near him I feel myself transformed, the drudgery of the past months sliding away in his arrogant smiles and his finely tailored jacket. His leather gloves, his long legs. I want to kill him, but I know I never could. I want to fuck him, but that may be even less possible. 

The clock's just chimed eight o'clock when he comes staggering out of the dungeons and breezes past me without a word. I wait a few minutes, then follow him up to his room and knock on the door. There's no answer but the sound of running water. I try the handle. Unlocked. 

His room already looks lived in, somehow. The window is opened, letting in a draft, and the white curtains blow lightly. There's a picture on his bedside table from which Lucius Malfoy smiles and waves, as unspeakably young as Snape appears. I tear my eyes away from it, looking toward the open bathroom door from which I can hear the shower. I contemplate interrupting him and demanding to be sent home, but decide against it and sit down, dejectedly, on the bed. 

When he comes out with his thick blue towel wrapped around his hips and his hair dripping he takes a disinterested look at me before turning to the closet and selecting a pair of slacks and a black robe. He moves to the chest of drawers and begins rifling through them. 

"Did Narcissa tell you everything you want to know?" he asks, back turned to me. 

"No," I say. "But I don't imagine you'll tell me anything more." 

"I'll tell you this much," he says, turning around and brushing his hair out of his eyes with an angry, agitated movement. "You'd better stop acting like such an arrogant little bastard." 

"Or else what?" I narrow my eyes. "I learned from the best, after all." 

"I told you before, Harry. There's more to me than glares and sneers and snide, inappropriate remarks. My persona doesn't fit you. Go back to being that adorable little orphan risking his life every other week." He slams the drawer shut and fixes me with a glare. 

"You hated me then," I remind him. 

"At least you were alive then. What do you think you are now? Some noble little fighting machine? No, you wouldn't think you were noble now. Then you had honor and pride and those thousand other make believe rewards for your suffering. You were special. Different. Now what are you? You've let the world beat you. You've let me beat you!" He snorts, glaring down his nose at me. "It's disgusting." 

"I'm sorry I displease you," I hiss, feeling the onslaught of angry, indignant tears. "Why don't I just leave? You can talk with Narcissa about old times and when you're done Arienette and I will just be locked in our rooms waiting to go. How's that sound? Is that what you want?" It takes me a moment to realise I'm screaming at him. 

"What I want is for you to wake up and realise how absurd you're acting! You could have everything." 

"I could," I admit. "If you didn't keep popping up and taking it away." 

"Don't lie to yourself. If I hadn't shown up you'd have spent Christmas alone, and the rest of your vacation avoiding your friends and eating cold take away." He sneers. "You remind me of myself." 

"Fuck you!" I shriek. "I'm not you! Everyone keeps saying it. Everyone keeps implying it. 'Gee, Harry, you seem down lately.' 'Don't stand like that, you look like Snape.' 'Gosh, you're so sarcastic lately.' Fuck you all! I'm not you!" I can feel hot tears running down my flushed cheek, the anger I feel pounding through me. 

Snape, strangely, is smiling down at me. "That's a good start," he says, reaching out a hand and wiping away a tear. I feel all hollowed out, everything released with my screams. I just shiver, letting him pet me softly, whisper into my ear as he sits down beside me on the bed. 

"Snape," I begin, meaning to demand an explanation. 

"You called me 'Severus', once," he says, brushing my jaw with his fingers. "That one night. Do you remember?" 

I chuckle through my tears, wiping agitatedly at my face. "Kind of hard to forget." 

Then he's kissing me, before I can even think of something snarky to say. I tense for a second, then sigh, relaxing into his touch, my arms moving up to wind around his neck as my mouth opens under his. He sucks my lower lip briefly, then flicks his tongue over it, pushing closer against me, his hands still framing my face. I sigh again, giving up and giving in as his tongue runs over the roof of my mouth in a hot, demanding caress. 

When he pulls away again I feel like I've got stars in my eyes. Everything is glittering, like light reflecting on fresh snow. His eyes, dark with his age, glint especially bright. My mouth feels bruised, wet. I bring one hand to my lips uncertainly, trying to maintain eye contact with him. 

His eyes shift away from mine uncertainly. "I shouldn't be doing this with you," he mutters, moving to stand up. I grab his hand, forcing him to remain beside me. "Harry…" 

"Stop," I say, my voice hoarse. "I want you." 

* * * 

I think he stays awake all night, but I'm not sure. I just know that he's awake when I fall asleep curled up in his arms, and he's awake when I wake up in the same position. 

Whether he slept or not, he kisses me good morning before retreating to the bathroom for a shower, and emerges again fully dressed. With a muttered, "Don't lay in bed all day," he's out the door and I know I won't see him for the rest of the day. 

The prospect of getting up is horrible. I envision another day of wandering listlessly from room to room, poking through boxes of photographs and fraying robes, piecing together a vision of what youth must have been like for Snape. I can understand now why he wants a second go at it. I'd really like to go outside, but I'm too afraid of running into Narcissa again. Merlin knows what secrets she has, just dying to be told. I don't want to know anymore than I have to. 

I get up, shower in Snape's bathroom, and dress. Walking back to my room I pause. Arienette's door is slightly ajar. 

I'm not sure I want to talk to her. I'm pretty sure I hate her. So I've no idea why I do it, but I push open the door and go inside, glancing about before saying her name. 

"What do you want?" She steps out of the bathroom wearing a red silk dress. I don't bother thinking of where it came from. She might have plucked it out of the air for all the difference it makes to me. Odds are good it belonged to Mrs. Lestrange, but I'm not going to dwell on that right now. We're all dressing up like Death Eaters, like a grand old masquerade. 

I'd like to stand her beside Narcissa, red and white, the colours of life and death, pleasure and purity, blood and bone. Muggle and flawed pureblood. 

"Will you tell me about you and Snape?" No use beating around the bush, I figure. 

She smiles, her good spirits apparently restored. "What about us?" 

"How'd you meet?" 

She sighs. "I was twenty three when we met in the spring of 1999. He was young and charming, and I was working as a fortuneteller with a traveling carnival. He came in and asked to have his palm read." She smiles, remembering. "He didn't put much stock in those things, but he seemed to be amused by it. He struck me as odd because I knew he believed in magic, but he didn't believe in this." 

"How did you know?" I ask. 

"I just knew. I know things," she shrugs. "I know you slept with him last night." 

I feel my face grow red at her words. "Are you jealous?" 

"Non. Of course not," she says, smiling. "Why should I be? We are not lovers." 

"But-" 

"We were never lovers," she continues, choosing her words carefully. "Or else, we were tentative lovers. More than anything we have been partners. He needed someone like me and I needed someone like him, and we just latched onto one another and went from there." She smiles gently at me. "You don't have to understand." 

"Why didn't I see you last time I saw him?" I ask. "He said you left him when you found out he was a wizard." 

Unexpectedly, she laughs. "Found out? I knew from the beginning. From the moment I saw him I sensed it on his skin and in his blood. 

"We were living in Belfast, but he knew you were coming. I told him. So we left and he sent me to stay with some friends while he engaged you." 

"How did you know I was coming?" 

"I told you," her eyes glitter. "I know things."   


III. 

The days fall into an easy pattern of waiting. I wake up and wait for Snape to finish work. I drift from room to room, place to place, in and out of doors. I sift through old memories, never mine, listening to old stories and thumbing through old photo albums, reliving other people's pasts. Narcissa's past, or Arienette's. I eat whatever the house elves offer me. I dress in dead men's clothing. 

Snape emerges after dark and then it's rush and tumble, with few words between us because my tongue is dried up from disuse and his will only cut. I cling to him in sleep and wake up in his arms. And life keeps on like this. 

On the third night I try to talk to him afterwards, warm in his embrace. I say something that's been eating at my mind. "Does Narcissa use a glamour?" 

"No," he sighs. "No, she's exactly as young as she looks. Lucius always had a touch of pedophilia." 

So we don't talk anymore. 

After a week I think we'll never leave. I don't care. I amuse myself during the day by walking through the long corridors and rooms, or trying to see if I can get Arienette and Narcissa in the same room at once. They repel each other like magnets. We're hanging like melting clocks, like dust in the air, becoming a part of the Manor, something unused and forgotten, archaic relics of another age, when he comes bursting up the stairs exclaiming eureka. 

The cure. We gaze at it hungrily. A neutralizing agent made from the blood of the enemy. Components of the virus dwell in it, and there's only one way to test it. 

I recall learning in Muggle school that when a vaccination for small pox was developed it was almost as deadly as the disease. 

Narcissa turns up her nose. "I suggest you find someone else to be your guinea pig." 

Arienette goes white, her voice wavering. "Is it safe?" 

I say nothing; just reach forward for the vial. He reluctantly releases it into my hand and I steel myself for whatever may come next. I offer him a smile that feels more like a grimace. "When have you ever gotten a potion wrong?" 

He says nothing, and I shrug, uncorking the vial and sniffing it. I wrinkle my nose; it smells like sulfur. I look up again, around myself one last time. Then I close my eyes and tip my head back, trying not to inhale as I swallow the liquid and set the vial down on the table. 

Snape releases a deep breath. I feel the same, maybe a little dizzier. "How do you feel?" he asks, moving closer to support me. "Harry?" 

I shake my head and the edges of the world blur. "I…I don't know." I turn, and my feet fall out from under me. "I want to lie down." 

"Of course." 

* * * 

It feels like wading through fire. No. It feels like drifting on a calm blue sea. No. It feels like sandpaper and ashes. It feels like being shredded alive. It feels like having my heart frozen. It feels like burning, drowning, hanging, bleeding, screaming, crying no. 

No. 

It feels like nothing. It feels like being dead. 

Snape's voice slides down into my dreams. "…keep his temperature down. If you can get him to drink…" I moan and turn away from it, my ears exploding with the muted sound. I feel hands on me, and open my eyes momentarily to see only a pair of black eyes. Nothing to do with me. I want to go back to drifting. 

Sirius is here with me, smiling in that way that never reaches his eyes. "If he lives through the night," he says, "then he's more of a miracle than anyone has claimed!" Then he opens his arms and flies away, and I'm left on the ground, reaching up to touch the heel of his boot. 

"Take me with you," I plead. "Don't leave me here. Please don't leave me here." 

"Harry, Harry," says a low voice, and I spin round to see Snape, smiling in his young skin, moving like a panther kitten all sinew and strength. "Call me Severus." 

I reach out a hand that passes right through his chest, draw it back and realise he's got nothing inside. I'm talking to air. And he goes up like smoke from a candle, and I'm left with nothing but myself, just alone again and it feels like the inside of a whale. Like a lion's mouth or the flames of a furnace. A garden that never changes is the way he looks to me. 

When I open my eyes again Narcissa is sitting in a chair by the window, gazing out at the lawn. I make a noise and she turns to me, her eyes wet and grey as seals. "Don't die on us, child," she orders, because women like her can only order. "You are what you are, but we're fond of what you're becoming." And then I fall back asleep, if I was ever awake at all. 

I dream about colours and places, and people and things. Smiles. After a time I've run out of things to dream of, and there is only darkness, and his voice. "I think he's coming out of it. Harry? Harry?" 

I blink, unsure of whether or not this is still a dream. "Severus?" My voice is cracked and dry, and someone hands me a glass of cool water. There's a pause before anyone says anything, and I can hear a sharp inhalation. 

"Harry? Can you hear me?" I nod, and then regret it as it mixes up my head. "You've been out for three days. Do you know where you are?" 

A dream, I want to say. My mouth forms around the words, "Malfoy Manor." 

"Yes, very good." His hand runs over my forehead in a soothing gesture. "You should be okay now." I hear him stand, then pause at the door. When he speaks again he sounds just like the way I remember from Hogwarts. "Congratulations; you've survived another bout with heroism."   
  
  
  
  



	3. Your Trust the Most Gorgeously Stupid Th...

Gloaming Part Three   
Your Trust The Most Gorgeously Stupid Thing I Ever Cut In The World   
I. 

A full recovery takes two more days of bed rest and hot soup. Snape and Arienette are busy working while I'm recuperating, packing their unique vaccination into crates and vials and loading it into the car. Narcissa drifts idly in and out of my bedroom, her grey eyes narrowed for any sign of danger. It doesn't make any difference. 

Finally I'm well enough to walk downstairs and eat in dining room. Arienette is seated on one side of me, Snape across, Narcissa on my right at the head of the table. 

"We'll be leaving soon," Snape informs her. "We have to get to Nice." 

"How much time do you have?" she asks. 

"All in all I'd say about a week and a half. Maybe a day more or less." He shrugs his shoulders in an irritated and determined way. "We'll be needing you soon, Harry." 

I nod. It's been so long since I questioned what it is he wants from me or what it is we're doing that it just seems futile to start again now. I felt so proud at having disclosed what petty secrets I found, but in the end I know just as little now as I ever did. 

"We're leaving in the morning," he says, but I'm not sure whom he's addressing. "And driving south." 

"Take anything you want," she says. "Take everything, if you like. I'll have the house elves prepare food for you." She rises, regal in her long white dress, her blond hair carefully pinned and styled, her eyes slit grey and shining onto the walls and doorways. "I'm going to bed, and I plan to sleep till noon. When I wake up, you will all be gone, and this will all have been a dream." 

Her heels click down the hall. 

* * * 

The atmosphere in the car is less oppressive now. I find the silences almost soothing, Snape's erratic cigarettes and frequent need to change the radio station comforting. Sitting in the back seat, staring at the countryside, I can almost pretend that I'm enjoying myself. 

"When we get to Nice," Snape says after an hour of silence. "We'll have to find Avery's old house. He has at least three of the remaining prototypes. It shouldn't take me more than a day to destroy them." 

"That only accounts for five out of six, darling," Arienette says, smiling as she makes a sharp turn that sends Snape and I crashing into the door. "What happens if the sixth becomes active?" 

"Avery kept close tabs on everything that went on in Death Eater business," Snape replies, unperturbed. "If I can locate his journals I can locate the sixth embryo." 

"Hold on a moment," I interject. "Why would it become active?" 

"Why do you think we're on this little joy ride, Harry?" Snape turns around in his chair and fixes me with a bemused and condescending stare. "Why do you think that, after all these years, I'm just now getting around to fixing this little problem?" 

I almost mention that I don't know since no one tells me anything, but that will probably make him stop talking so I say, "I don't know. Why?" 

"Because, my bright child, they are only now becoming a real threat." He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Lucius and I put time locks on them prohibiting them from becoming active before a certain date unless they were released from stasis. The jars were remarkably hard to unfasten and, except for the one in my collection, seal magically to prohibit the creatures' release. However, when the time locks expire in a week and a half, the embryos will come to life regardless of the jars and will, eventually, find a way out. It will also make them rather more difficult to kill. All things considered, I think it's a fairly good reason for going after them now, don't you?" 

"Well, if you hadn't procrastinated," I begin, but stop when I see the withering glare he's shooting at me. "Fine. What am I supposed to do?" 

"You stay out of the way. After I finish with the embryos and locate the final one you call your Aurors and have them rush in and investigate the situation. There's probably something there they'll want." He shrugs. "They never did find all the old Death Eater hide outs, and this one was particularly important. Avery's ledgers are all there, as well as a few pieces of dark magic. Nothing beyond their dubious capabilities, once I've disposed of the embryos. It would be a good idea to have them clean the place out." 

"Why do you need the vaccination to kill them? Why not just use whatever you did on that one that attacked me seventh year?" I feel like arguing just for the sake of being contrary now. 

"The spell I used to defeat that one was such that it completely erased the existence of the being. It was incredibly tiring and the nature of the spell dictates that it becomes more and more difficult to perform every time it is cast. Most wizards wouldn't have been able to cast it once," he sniffs haughtily. "But then, I've always been above average." 

I say nothing, and we lapse back into silence, Snape's hand on the dial, switching frequently between jazz and rock and roll, news radio and easy listening, all in French so I don't understand a word. After another hour he switches off the sound and lights another cigarette, cracking a window despite the cold. I get the feeling this little act of courtesy is more for Arienette than for me. 

* * * 

We're lost. Of course, it would have to happen. Snape and Arienette argue in French for several minutes before she pulls off the road and drives in bitter silence to the first building we come across; a funeral parlour. 

Hilarious, I think, and follow them out of the car for the excuse to stretch my legs. The building is white, almost disgustingly so. Inside it is dark and the carpet is so thick that even the sound of Snape's boots is lost. I cough at the dust hanging in the air, and wonder if some of it isn't ash. 

Arienette rings a bell and Snape moves outside to smoke a disgruntled cigarette. I drift restlessly through the lobby, picking up pamphlets with French titles and English written underneath in italics. _"Picking the Right Coffin,"_ one says. Another reads, _"Overcoming the grief."_

The man that comes to help us is tall and lean, so pale he might have just gotten up and walked off the embalming table. I snicker and duck outside, tired of the stifling air inside. Snape is leaning on one of the columns, grimacing like a rockstar, cigarette in his gloved hand. He gives me a cool, calculating glance before turning his glare back to the impassive car. 

"Why do you really need me along?" I ask, kicking the base of the column. "I mean, you could call the Aurors yourself, and you don't really need them there anyway. You could handle it if you wanted to, and you're not one to just go for the easiest option available. So why am I really here?" 

"You are here," he says, examining his cigarette without emotion, "because you managed to survive not only my class, but a war with the Dark Lord. You are here because your fool parents took it into their heads to produce an idiotic offspring." 

"I've got a right to know," I mutter, glaring at my shoes. "You'll tell me eventually, you know." 

"Bravo, Harry." He drops the fag and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. Arienette comes gliding out of the funeral parlour at just that moment, speaking in rapid French to him, clearly oblivious to my presence as she makes her way back to the car. I follow them, dragging my heels. 

It's still a half hour to Nice. I spend the time trying to guess at where Snape might have hidden my wand. Once I get it back I fully intend to disembowel Arienette. Oh, I know she's not really that bad. Hell, she kept me sane a lot of the time during the past week. She's pleasant enough. Pretty, intelligent, kind. I can even overlook the fact that she's French, ha, ha. No. It's plain old jealousy that's got me going now. And goddamn I wish I had my wand. 

She said they aren't lovers, but that doesn't excuse the way he acts around her. He hangs on her every word, values her opinions, doesn't mock her the way he does me. In fact, he's never taken anything less than an attentive and gracious tone with her that I can remember. He treats her like his sacred little Muggle doll. The thoughts are pulling my mouth into an unpleasant sneer. I shouldn't hate her, but I do. 

Since I recovered from his goddamned cure he's hardly touched me. It makes me wonder if the whole thing wasn't an act. He knew he'd need someone willing to risk their life for him, and there I go like an idiot believing that…what? What had I believed, exactly? That he meant anything he said? Ever? 

And what would have happened last spring, if I'd gone with him at Godric's Hollow? He'd have brought me back to Arienette and I'd be right where I am now. I don't want him if I have to share him with her. I shouldn't want him at all, but I do. 

There's a sudden flash of light and I yelp, my hands rising to my face as I blink. Snape snickers behind his camera and I hear Arienette laugh. "How adorable," he drawls. "You looked just like me for a moment." 

* * * 

Avery's house is decidedly less impressive than Malfoy Manor. It was probably very modern when he bought it in the early seventies, but the only word for it now is tacky. I'm driven up the scratchy walls, going out of my mind with boredom. Arienette and I are supposed to be looking for Avery's journals while Snape works in a boarded up back room. However, she fell asleep as soon as we got here, and I'm just looking for things to break to get attention. 

Honestly, there is nothing to do in this house. Everything is placed in perfect order. I have the feeling that, were I looking for the journals, I'd have found them by now. Everything is so neatly organized, even after his death, that I'm amazed. My flat looks like hell and I clean once a week. Or once every two weeks. Call it once a month. It's not the issue here. The issue is what can I do that will amuse me for the rest of the day? 

I consider shaving Arienette's eyebrows off, but that strikes me as painfully juvenile. I'm not yet as bad as Snape, grasping at a lost youth. I sneer. 

When I finally start searching for the journals it's nearly midnight. I'm having a grand time pulling out drawers and creating havoc in Avery's bedroom when I hear Snape from the doorway. "What the hell are you doing?" 

Suddenly I'm embarrassed. By my actions, my jealousy, my petty self-serving behaviour when the whole world could fall apart. I'm embarrassed because I have been imitating him, hiding behind a mask of whom he is, pretending with everyone I know and being a general fuck up. 

I sit back on my heels on the floor and look up at him. "Looking for the journals?" I offer. He raises an eyebrow in annoyance and saunters in, throwing himself onto the bed with a sigh. I get up and move to sit beside him. "How'd it go?" 

"Oh, as well as can be expected," he sighs. "Anyway, it's finished now. We just need those journals and we can get out of here and put this all behind us." 

My heart skips a beat_. Put this all behind us._ Of course, that's what I've been waiting for, to go back home. It seems ludicrous though, that he'd just let me go like that. I suddenly feel hopeless, helpless, out of control. 

I want to say something. I want to say that I won't leave him, that I'll go with him. But there's something between us, stretching out like a river of ashes, struck up to float high on the wind amid us like a wall of all dead things. Words like "betrayal" and "used" fill up my mind. The silences that grew are preventing words now, and I feel like he's breaking me in half. 

He is breaking me in half. 

His hand traces my jaw and I don't look, my eyes focused straight ahead, staring into the air. There is nothing there. There is nothing keeping us going. There is nothing keeping me together anymore. 

"Harry?" He sounds like a voice from my dreams and I want to keep him here with me. I want to go back in time. I want to move away because the more we touch the harder it is to pull back. It's already like pulling off skin. 

There are sacrifices you make for relationships, but some things go too far. Remus and Sirius, McGonagall and Dumbledore, Narcissa and Lucius…there are sacrifices we all make. He would sacrifice her, and I would sacrifice my job. We'd keep on making compromises, building a relationship of sacrifices; a relationship of losses, until we'd lose each other. 

He says, "We are working with borrowed time." His fingers smell like tobacco and formaldehyde and lemon soap. I want to curl up inside him and forget who I am, but I know he'd push me away at that. He says, "I want to love you in the time we've been given." 

He says, "love," like he's throwing off airs, like he's just mentioning the weather. Like I want to lie down and die. I will never be complete. I throw my arms around his neck and pretend we never have to part. 

His voice in my ear: "Our time is sweeter because it is finite." 

No. No, we are infinite, I tell him without speaking. My lips move over his and breathe the thought into his mind. Infinite. This is never ending. I will not be tossed aside and I will not let him go again. No. I will hold onto this forever. Sacrifices. There will be sacrifices and I will throw them to the wind, watch them drift like dust away from my life. Away from me, from us. No. 

His tongue pushes into my mouth and his hands move, gripping my arms as I lean over him, braced with one hand on either side of his face. I will never pull away, I tell myself, not so long as I am still alive. But he's pushing me away, trying to speak against my mouth. I reluctantly let him pull back and sit up to face me, sliding his arms onto my shoulders. 

"I do love you," he says softly. "I trust you." 

Merlin let that trust be warranted.   


II. 

Dreaming in his arms. Words and images spill through my mind. 

I will never let you go. We are infinite and we will remain together, parallels of one another, light and dark. Wrapped in your arms I am safe. I am protected. If the door opens you will spring up and save me. Nothing can hurt me when I am in your arms. The world is just a place we pretend to live in. I am you and you are me and I am safe. 

Safe. 

I will never be complete. I will never be complete outside of you. 

(Harry, Harry…) I won't ever let you go. If I can wrap my fingers tight enough around the image of us together, hold onto this night, then it won't be like everything else in my life and it will never go. There will be a million more nights just like this. We will never say good-bye. We will never part… 

(Harry.) I see you like a reverse Seraph, dark hair over dark eyes, purple black wings arching out behind your back. Bigger than life. I want to compare you to something romantic. 

You remind me of a flower… 

(Wake up, Harry.) 

You remind me of… 

(Harry, wake up.) 

Have you ever heard about tulips? Their insides are the most beautiful purple and red and yellow around a black center. As they get old they open wider to catch the sun, until they can't close up again, until they fall apart and die. 

(Harry.) 

You remind me…. 

"Wake up."   


* * * 

I don't want to get up. Snape is already dressed and showered, sitting on his side of the bed shaking my shoulders. I open lazy eyes and smile up at him. For a second I fancy I see him smile back. Then his face is glossed over once more and he says, "We have to find those journals today." 

I scoot closer to him, lying on my side and facing him. I thread my fingers with his, smiling at the gesture. "I want to be you," I say. "I want to be the same person as you. One person." I look up from under my eyelashes, my smile faltering at his expression. "What is it?" 

He snatches his hand away quickly and stands up stiffly. "Get dressed. We've got work to do." He starts to walk away. 

"What the fuck?" I yell at his back. He stops walking, clearly waiting to hear what I have to say. Unfortunately, I hadn't thought that far ahead, and I brush a hand back through my hair in exasperation. "I mean, you drag me out of my flat on Christmas, take my wand, treat me like a child, and force me to hang around with Narcissa Malfoy and some crazy Muggle bint you picked up God only knows where! Then you fuck me, or make love to me, or whatever, and poison me with some stupid cure you've created. You promptly ignore my existence. Then we get here and you're all about love and making the most of our time, only to turn around and act like such a Goddamned prick the next morning when I finally thought I had you!" 

My face feels hot and wet, my teeth rattling with the volume of my words. Everything I say, I know, cannot be taken back. I'm screaming at him trying to understand, and his fucking back is all I have to go by as he starts walking again. 

"No!" I shriek, my voice ragged and hoarse. "No." 

The door shuts behind him and I'm left alone. Broken. Split. Unraveled and out of control. I draw my knees up and bury my face in my arms, taken over by erratic shaking sobs I'd normally try to hide. Right now, however, it hardly seems to matter. I'm crying so hard, my face pressed so tight into my arms that I don't realise he's back in the room until his hand touches my bare shoulder. 

My head snaps up, my vision blurred as I try to focus on him. He sighs, sitting down next to me and handing me a handkerchief. "Dry your face," he says, but he doesn't say stop crying, so I don't. "I'm sorry." 

I blink. He sounds sincere. Even last night he hadn't sounded this sincere, I realise. He vacillates between sounding angry or sarcastic and sounding like he's joking, mocking, lying to my face. But not now. I've let myself be led around by the nose by him, and now he sounds really apologetic. 

I realise I haven't said anything in response, and that there's another awkward pause lengthening between us. "Why'd you do it?" I ask. "Not the murders. I don't care about that anymore. Why did you sleep with me? Why did you bring me here? Really. I want to know the real reason, none of your needing help business." I sniff discretely. "Why did you get so mad just now? I don't understand anything you do." 

"Harry," he reaches out for me but I move back, shaking my head. I want answers and I want them now. He sighs again. "Alright. Alright. You've probably realised that Arienette isn't exactly an everyday Muggle girl by now." I nod. That much is obvious. "Well, I realised it too, when I met her. She was working as a fortune teller, and she was very well suited to the job." He gives a wry grin. "She's a low grade telepath. She can't always sense words or exact thoughts, but she can find ideas, impressions, emotions. She can tell when someone is lying, what someone is feeling, whom someone is thinking of, things like that. 

"Well, that was just the sort of person I needed with me. I was lonely, wandering the world on my own in this borrowed appearance. I hadn't thought I could get lonely, but I did. And then she appeared. She was perfect," he pauses. "Stop grinding your teeth or you'll give yourself a head ache. I'm not in love with her and I never was. She knows that and I know, and if you'd get your head out of your arse you'd know it too. 

"Moving right along, I decided to take her with me. She's not exactly a stable person. Telepaths rarely are. They are constantly bombarded by images, sounds, emotions that are not their own, and it would drive the strongest person mad. Thankfully, Arienette is, as I said, not an advanced telepath, and her telepathy is not sufficient to send her raving into the night. It is, however, enough to unbalance her to the point that she accepts things like magic and wizards more readily than the average person. 

"It wasn't long before I realised that, apart from having no inhibitions about my magical abilities she was also completely devoid of morals. Something about the chaos caused by the constant stream of emotions and senses must have unhinged her, or else she was just born with her morality in tatters. Either way, it was rather fortunate for me since, as you know, I have the nasty habit of killing folks now and then." He smirks at me. "And it made for some wonderful parties. 

"We took the world by storm. Side by side we traveled everywhere, did everything, a traveling circus of sin and debauchery, magic and death. We played some excellent mind games using her powers of perception and mine of deception, but I don't have time to go into that now. I had her keep track of you as well. I always felt wretched about leaving you without an explanation, and I wanted to make sure you were getting on well enough. I suppose I imagined that if you were in danger I could rush in and save you again, as idiotic as that sounds. 

"When we were Belfast she caught the impression that you were coming, so I sent her off to stay elsewhere. She's important to me. I'm not in love with her, as I said, and she's just not capable of that sort of emotional attachment. I didn't want you fucking with her, and I didn't want to even consider what she might do to you. So I told you she was gone in an attempt to keep the both of you safe. 

"I resolved not to see you again, after last spring. I didn't want to mess you up or let you down. I knew you could never give yourself to me the way I wanted you to. You proved that quite plainly, to my utter disappointment. But I had her keep her eye on you, always sensing out your feelings and emotions, keeping track. What she saw was your decent into darkness, into something that was not yourself. 

"You've been play acting for months. You've been pretending to be someone you're not. Your friends have pointed it out to you, I've no doubt. You're just imitating me. I really don't know why. Well, I couldn't let you become me, couldn't let you end up the way I am. I may advocate detachment from petty sentimentality, from foolishness and the fool hardy Gryffindor spirit, but not when it comes to you." He smiles softly, raising one hand and reaching out to touch my cheek. "There was never anything so beautiful to me as you are. You were so full of life once, so amazing. And to see you give up all your battles, to treat the life you've been given as a chore…I couldn't stay away. 

"That's why we brought you with us. I wanted to leave Arienette out of it, but she wanted to meet you and I knew her gift would come in handy. That's why I've purposely provoked you. That's why I hate it when you say you want to be me, because you don't know what you're saying. I want you to wake up, Harry, be alive." He sighs, dropping his hand and holding my gaze. 

There's a long silence then, and we both drop our eyes at once, looking anywhere but at each other. I believe him, I think. He's sounded sincere before, and it's all been lies. He's lied under Veritaserum. For some reason this just feels different though. He hasn't told me everything, but he's told me enough, and he's told me what was important. Snape was never one to bear his soul at the drop of a hat. I feel lucky to have even this much. 

Finally, for lack of anything better to say, I tell him that I think I saw Avery's journal yesterday in my mad chaotic search, shoved at the back of a book case between two volumes of encyclopedias, Hippo-Ingot and Ingrate-Jellyfish, to be exact. 

* * * 

"Mexi-sodding-co." Snape shuts the leather bound journal with a snap and drops it onto the kitchen table. Arienette, standing by the fridge holding a glass of tap water, looks up at him in puzzlement. "Good old Avery kept good track of all his trades. Our virus foe is in Puerto Viarta, in the home of a Mister Santiago Cabron." He sits back, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Wonderful." 

"I'll book a flight," Arienette says, setting her water down in a swift, business like fashion. Her body language is saying, "no worries here. A-okay." 

"No, there's no time," Snape shakes his head, standing up. "We have to act now. We need a plan of attack. Harry," he turns to me. "I need you to contact the Aurors as soon as I'm finished. Tell them you were kidnapped by me, but don't mention Arienette. Explain that you've discovered a definite Death Eater head quarters and tell them to show up in exactly five hours. Tell them you'll be waiting for them. 

"Arienette, as soon as Harry's finished you take the car and drive north. I'll meet you in Paris once this is over." 

"I'm not leaving." 

"Yes, you are. Not only would be at risk of contracting the virus, but you would be no help to us. We can't delay our plans with a plane. We have to apparate. You go to Paris and lie low. Harry and I will apparate to Mexico and track down Cabron." He claps his hands together. "Everyone set?" 

"Wait," I say. "What happens after we destroy the embryo?" 

"We live happily ever after. Really, Harry, can't we discuss that later? Go make your contact. We can't tarry here for very much longer."   


III. 

She's lingering at the door, her face tilted down, hair tumbling in curls across her pale skin, her pale eyes. He's standing there in front of her, leaning down to talk to her, explaining that everything will be all right. I don't know why he bothers, if she can read more easily than I that he certainly does not believe himself. I wonder what he's saying. _I'll find you; I'll come and find you someday._

No it does not do to dwell on this. I clear my throat and she glances up, her eyes full of loathing that I would dare interrupt their moment with something so trivial as saving the world. 

When at last the door is shut behind her Snape walks toward me with his shoulders slightly slumped, his walk a little slower than I remember it being. "Ready to go?" he asks, and his voice sounds as old as time. 

I nod. "Isn't it too far to apparate?" 

He shrugs. "We'll just have to try harder, or combine our resources." And he grabs my hand and pulls me close, and the next thing I know I'm being disassembled.   
  
  
  



	4. The Last Thing We Ever Do

Gloaming Part Four   
The Last Thing We Ever Do   
Dedication: Morghaine is the best person in the world. She got me a Live Journal. Therefore, I rejoice. *bows to Morghaine* 

I. 

We are not dressed appropriately for Mexico. 

This becomes apparent at once, but is easily remedied. Sweating in the intense evening heat, Snape drags me into an alley and quickly transfigures our heavy winter clothing. I blink at the shock of seeing him in anything casual, let alone a t-shirt and white cotton slacks. Somehow they suit him more than shorts would. I'm reflecting on this when he pushes a cool length of wood into my hands. 

"Take this. You'll need it." 

I look down at my wand, then up, blinking at him. I could run. I could apparate. I could hex him right now, call the Aurors, have him taken back and never released, finally have justice and vengeance and closure. I could kill him right here, right now. But I won't. Instead I pocket the wand and follow him back into the street. 

He's glancing around. Finally he seems to see what he's looking for, because he motions with his head in the direction of a nightclub. "In there." 

"The embryo is in there?" I ask, incredulous. 

"No," he replies with disdain. "Cabron is in there. We need him to lead us to the embryo." 

"And how are we going to do that?" This is getting rapidly idiotic. "Are you going to waltz right up and ask for directions?" 

"Just for that, I might. Come on." He grabs my hand and drags me forward, toward the club. And, well, who am I to resist? I could run, but we've established that I won't. I could probably have left all along, if I'd wanted to. But the truth is that I'll follow him right into hell. 

The club is only moderately cooler than the air outside. It's dimly lit, fake torches on stone walls giving it a medieval atmosphere. A tangle of dancers writhe under the low orange glow, but Snape is heading toward the bar, gripping my hand so that I've no choice but to follow. "Hey! Where are you going?" I don't really expect an answer, so I'm not disappointed when I receive none. Snape seems determined to get to the bar and, I realise, a certain man in particular. Seated at the bar, martini in hand, Cabron is measuring our approach with his eyes. He looks about fifty-five, impeccably dressed in a dark coloured suit. His eyes, a penetrating and unexpected blue, glare at my companion for an elongated moment, then drop to his hands, curled like waiting serpents on the bar counter. 

If Snape finds any of this odd he doesn't mention it. I don't bother asking how he knows we're headed for the right man, but I suspect Arienette's influence is extending overseas. I say nothing though, merely follow as Snape leads us to the bar and orders two martinis. I'd rather have a coffee but I don't point that out just now. Even I have some brains. 

"Senor Cabron. Un minuto por favor." Snape's mastery of the Spanish language, I am well aware, will not extend much further than this. I've watched enough late night Spanish soap operas to know that his accent is terrible, even for such a small phrase. 

"Do not trouble yourself," Cabron replies with a malicious grin. "I know English moderately well. So then, what would you have with your minuto? State your name and business with me, and I will not ask how it is you know my name." 

"Your reputation proceeds you, Cabron, and your countenance is familiar to us overseas. But I will be brief with you. Many years ago you came into possession of an item, which, at the time, could be considered harmless. It was, I have no doubt, of interest to you as one who possessed not only impeccable blood, but also no small amount of delight derived from the suffering of others. However, it would be wise at this juncture to surrender said object to my assistant and myself. I do not expect you to go unpaid for this act; have no fear; you will be reimbursed." Here he extracts a small cloth pouch from one of his pockets and sets it on the table between them. "Ten thousand galleons, as credible here as they are in England, I've no doubt." 

Cabron studies us for a moment, then, setting down his drink, reaches out for the gold. Snape's hand arrests him though. "Ah, you would not play me for a fool, would you Cabron? I will have what I came for first." 

"You have not yet told me your name," Cabron remarks, not moving from his crouch toward the gold. "Nor, indeed, do you need to. I recognize you well enough. Severus Snape. And you would have thought I had forgotten, it was so long ago that you and your friends came sniffing round my doors in search of expensive new thrills to keep you from boredom. Did the Blyss not take with you? I never saw you any more than that once, but I remember. 

"Death Eaters, you were, proud young men of England prepared to battle tooth and nail for the right to name yourselves pure. I never cared for blood unless it fell, and then not a breath for its so-called purity. Half bloods and Muggles can hold a knife as well as any pureblood, some better, for that matter. And a half blood or a Muggle will not mind dirtying his hands a little, should the occasion call for it." His mouth twists up in the grim parody of a smile. "No indeed, but they have their uses, as you were so unwilling to see. 

"I know the object you speak of. Your friend traded it to me for another hit of that elusive thrill. It runs down in old age, but I see that you have retained your youth. I admit, I was afraid to use the creature in my possession, and it is half relief that you should now come for it, for I have often of late eyed it with anticipation. Many were the nights I crept from my bedchamber to the little locked cell in which I have kept it and, once there, stared fearful at its murky depths and wondered if I am, indeed, pure enough to stand a test such as it would put me to. But," he sighs, sitting up and removing his hand from Snape's loose grasp, "no matter. You are here now and I will take you to that which you desire. Come, I have a car outside." 

"He speaks quite good English," I whisper when Cabron stands to leave and Snape and I are isolated from him. 

"Yes," Snape scowls. "Those who deal across nations do well to learn the subtlety of language. Come on." 

I'm not entirely convinced that following this man is a wise decision, but I follow, eyes fixed on the center of Snape's back, glimpses of his white neck peering through his hair. Black and white. Red and white. There are so many contrasts in this time I do not know where to place myself. Between the lines, I should say, but there is no grey area, no shades or tints. And, standing with one foot in each side, I feel myself split down the middle by some unseen force. But I follow, and will do so until that choice, also, is taken from me. 

* * * 

The house is very modern, very ordered, very well kept and polished. It is so unlike Malfoy Manor that I cannot help but remark it to Snape, who makes a noncommittal grunt and urges me to keep up. We are walking down a tiled hallway, one thick necked guard guiding us and one behind us, Cabron chattering happily between us. 

There are so many twists and turns I'm beginning to think we're in a maze, and I'm focusing my best on remembering which turns we've taken when Cabron drops back a bit to walk beside me, lowering his voice for my ears alone. "You seem quite young," he remarks. "But then, so does your companion." 

When I fail to respond he continues in a hushed tone. "I sense that your youth is genuine, however. Your naivety is clear. And…you are not pure? Not like him. Interesting then, that he should care for you." 

"What makes you think he does?" I bristle. "I am, after all, his assistant alone." 

Cabron smiles, his dark eyes flashing. "Si, si claro. But there is more to it. I can tell. He feels for you, as I do for no one. And you…you do not care for anyone. I can see it." 

I open my mouth to argue but then realise that the guard in front has stopped before a heavy door and Snape is looking at us with impatience. "Senor, if you would not mind, we are in a slight hurry." 

"Oh course, of course," Cabron smiles, moving to open the door. He pauses, key in hole, and turns. "The money first, if you please, and as I can see you are still anxious I will give you my word that what you ask for is inside this room." Reluctantly, Snape relinquishes the gold. "Gracias. And now, as I said, the thing is in this room." He draws the key out and stands before us, smiling like a candy skull. "And there it shall remain. Jorge, Juan, take them to the dungeons." 

"Cabron! You're a fool if you do this!" Snape's hand reaches toward his wand quick as thunder, but the two thugs already have his wrists in their meaty paws. 

I make a quick grab at my own wand, only to find my wrist held by Cabron's well-manicured fingers. His other hand sneaks up to trace the corner of my jaw. "And you, chico, we shall find something to do with you soon enough." 

"Let him go! He's nothing but my assistant. He can't be any use to you!" Snape's voice is unfortunately frantic, and Cabron, hearing this panic, only grins. "Cabron! Let him go!" 

"No, Senor Snape, I do not think I will. It has been many years since I gained this unique creature, and I have not yet observed its powers. I will witness them now, though. Jorge, take our friend Severus away. Juan, assist me with the boy." 

I panic, briefly, before remembering the trouble I went through earlier to ensure that I would, in fact, be immune to the virus. Cabron is unlocking the door, Juan holding my arms behind me and then forcing me forward, into the small chamber inside. There's a low table with straps, vaguely reminiscent of a hospital. It is onto this that Juan is forcing me, against my will, to lie. His strong hands pin my hips and shoulders down and then Cabron is fastening the tight leather straps across my chest, my arms, tight against my side, my spread legs. 

"I've been saving this," he informs me, "for just the right occasion. Juan, if you please." As the jar is handed over I can't help but feel the bile rising in my throat. When has Snape ever gotten a potion wrong? When has Snape ever failed? I've put all my trust in Snape and now at last comes the moment of truth, with the loosening of that heavy lid and the first sick smell as a few grey fingers reach over the edge of the glass. 

I'm screaming before I realise it, and Cabron makes no move to stop me. The jar is set on the edge of the table, the fingers working hard now to pull out the hideous thing I know they belong to. I'm screaming Snape's name, screaming and begging and pleading with him, 'help me help me save me save me no please no'. Unintelligible ramblings until it's all just 'Snape Severus Snape Snape Snape' with no answer but Cabron's demented laugh and the stench of antiseptic and rotting plants. 

And five years of fear are rushing back in on me, five years of this one memory tumbling back over my head. Black eyes, milked over opaquely as they blink, huge and blind in that bulbous fishy head, peer at me now like the harbingers of pestilence. 

And it's almost a blessing when I finally black out.   


II. 

"Fancy seeing you here," Snape mutters when I open my eyes. Classis dungeon decorating, I see. Chains and stones and bars and all that jazz. Peachy. I turn my attention back to Snape, who hovers over my prone figure like an angel of goodness and light, his expression gentle and patient as he smoothes one cool hand down the side of my burning face. "You've got a few cuts on you, nothing you can't handle." 

"The virus…" I begin, then stop, wincing. My throat feels like I've swallowed glass. From screaming, I realise, for my kidnapper. I blush. 

"You shouldn't have too much trouble with that," he insists, still brushing hair out of my face with his hands. "Give me a little credit." 

"I give you too much," I whisper, pitching my voice low enough that it doesn't hurt to speak. "I trust you too much." 

"Trust," he smiles. "It's what I wanted of you to begin with. And what I wanted to give you." 

"And do you, then? Do you trust me?" I feel a fever gripping the edges of my sanity, but cling resolutely to this moment of clarity. 

Snape chuckles, his fingers running like cool water over my skin. "Silly boy," he taunts. "Don't you understand anything? I kidnapped you, and you came along when you could have cursed me into darkness and death with ease. You killed the Dark Lord, but you submitted before me. There were a thousand times you could have gotten away, and a thousand times you stayed. You offered me your body as a testing ground for toxins and you endured the suspicion that Arienette and I might be lovers. You took my word without question when I told you we were not. You followed me here, to Mexico of all places, into the pits of a dungeon, and even now you believe I'll get us out of here somehow. How could I not trust you, after all that? How can you have ever claimed to have hated or distrusted me? I've given you little but lies before now, yet you came with me as willingly as if I'd been your best friend. If that's not trust, what is?" 

I frown up at him, trying to ascertain the meaning behind all he's said. "Why did you take me in first place? Why take me out here?" My words are slurred and tumbling. "Why…why have a watch on me at all?" 

"Because you were dying from your addictions," he smiles softly. "You were killing yourself with routine. Slowly but surely you were suffocating in hot coffee and alarm clocks, paperwork and cheap sandwich lunches. And all the things you used to look forward to seemed like nothing, seemed like chores. I wanted to give you something of yourself back, something of the way I used to see you. But I think I may have gotten you into more trouble than I'd expected," he sighs. "I am sorry for all this." 

I can feel my eyelids closing out the scene as he speaks, and my last sight is his calm and creaseless face floating above me, dispelling all threats. 

* * * 

The dream I'm having isn't a whole lot like what you'd expect. I'm dreaming that I'm laid out on a table, utterly naked. There are porcelain jars all around me, carefully painted with words I can't read, and the soft, lugubrious scent of incense hangs in the air. I can hear the distant murmur of Snape's voice, too low for me to comprehend the words. I can't move. 

There's a man standing over me with no face at all. He's made of silk black hair and worn bronze skin, and there's no mouth, no nose, no eyes or ears, but a foreign angle to the jaw and a gold band shivering light around his neck. Fluttering finger tips press down on my biceps, moving continuously, wrapping me in gauze. Snape's voice drones on. 

The bandages are holding me tighter and tighter in place, cool and soothing against my arms and legs, my constricted chest. And then he starts on my head, one band around my eyes, muffling the light from above. One more band, and my left eye goes blind. I stare at the shrouded world through my one good eye, trying to make out the sound of Snape's words, the importance of his soliloquy. 

Wrapped up in bandages, I am lifted from the table and set in a thin box. Looking to my side through my right eye I see walls of gold around me, a lid leaning against the wall with my pale face emblazoned on it. Green eyes inlayed with emeralds, painted lips and Pharaoh's hooded crown. And Snape's voice comes clear as the lid is lifted, moved into position just above me, dark against the radiant light. 

"…King of your heart in the blind days, blow away like breath, go crying through you and me…Innocent dark, and the guilty dark…Fly like the stars' blood, like the suns' tears, like the moons' seed…" 

The lid snaps shut on his voice and the lights go out in my head. And I wake with a shiver in his arms, head pillowed on his chest where he's murmuring in my ear. "Rubbish and fire, the flying rant of the sky…" 

"Severus?" His head jerks up at the sound of his name and he locks his dark eyes on me. "How long was I asleep?" 

"An hour. Maybe a little more," he shrugs. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better," I reply, and am surprised to find that it is the truth. "Um, how are you?" 

"Never better," he smiles. "You can go back to sleep if you like." 

"No, I'd rather talk if it's alright with you." He raises an eyebrow and nods warily. "Thank you." I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. "What was Cabron talking about? About Blyss?" 

Snape sighs and examines his nails. "Blyss is a highly illegal wizarding drug. Its recipe is particularly difficult as it calls for several items that are, let us say, difficult to acquire. Cabron made his fortune off it. A long time back, Avery and Knott and I came here hoping to try something new and ended up buying a kilo of the stuff." He sneers in disdain. "Knott and I were both sick for three days, but Avery loved it. He used to go to Lucius for money when he was running low. He must have traded the fetus for another hit." 

There's an audible pause between us as I consider the insanity of a man willing to trade the safety and future of the world for a hook up. Finally I say, "How are we getting out of here?" 

"Harry, don't worry about it. Cabron will want to see the effects of the virus. You can fake ill when he comes, and by the time he catches on the Aurors will have traced your location and we'll go free." 

I shake my head. "No, I know you can get us out of here before that. That could take weeks! You can do much better." 

His mouth thins into a firm line. "You don't know what you're asking for." 

"You've gotten out of worse before and you can get us out of here now! All I'm asking is that you stop fucking around and take me home!" I punctuate the last three words with weak punches, exasperated but still drained from the fever. 

"What is it you think you know about me? You think I can just waltz over to the door and ask it to open and let you out, do you? You think walls bend at my words? How do you think I've managed to stay free so long? Think about it, Harry. Think really hard about everything you know about me." I can feel the walls of my mind caving in on me. "Think about when I broke your nose. And multiply that by a thousand." 

"So what? We have to get out of here any way we can." I shiver nonetheless and he fails to reply. "Snape," I sigh. "Severus, look. I think I'm in love with you." He raises one eyebrow. I sigh and push my hair back. "I feel all twisted up inside but I know that everything you do you do for my benefit. And you think that now I'll turn away from you because of how you'll get us free? You think I can't stomach it? But you're the only one that makes me feel anything anymore, the only person that can draw any reaction from me. 

"Without you I'm nothing, and think about what that implies. I feel broken and scarred and like bits of rubbish that anyone can just step over and ignore. And I claw for bits of kindness that I don't know how to achieve or reciprocate. But you rescue me from myself, from the person I've become, and I can't just turn away from that." He reaches up to touch my face, and I see his fingers come away wet. I sniff. "I'm so confused and afraid here, and I don't understand why I let you do…everything you do to me. But I want to go now, please, so do whatever it takes and I'll stay by you. Just get me out of here, please." I collapse into his arms, pressing my face into his shoulder and trying to lose myself in the unique scent of his skin. 

We say nothing, only grasp each other closer and forget just where we are. His mouth is at my ear again, mouthing kisses and gentle bites as I shiver against him. Inside my head I'm just repeating, "I can do this I can do this I can do this I can." I can trust him, because I've been trusting him all along. I can love him, because there's no one else to love. I can accept him, I'm sure, regardless of whatever underhanded technique he may use to free us, because I have to. Because I want to get out. And he has to save the world. Of course. 

"Come on," he says, after what feels like an age. "We're leaving." And he's tugging me to my feet, holding out his hand and offering his reassuring smile. And then things come in flashes, and I think it's the fever, but I don't have time to tell him before he's turned his back and he's leading me by the hand toward the metal bars of our prison cell. Flashes, like the torchlight on his hair, like the cut of his clothes and the slide to his step. Like the guard opening the door at something Snape's saying, and the blood that hits the wall, and Snape's arms sunk in to the elbow in human flesh, red staining the white of his slacks as he pulls back and wipes his hands, still smiling at me. 

The world is stained in scarlet, or so it seems as he drags me up the stone stairs, clutching a wand I can only assume he's taken from the guard. The movement make my head spin, and as I pant to keep up with him there seems to be rather too much blood on him for just one death. 

Back in that long labyrinthian hallway, he is tearing his way through obstacles of flesh and bone. Snarls like a jungle cat's rip their way from out his throat, and his face is pulled into a horrid grimace as he tears our assailants limb from limb, teeth bared to sink into skin, mouth smearing with blood. His eyes are wild as he casts curse after curse, twisting necks full round and snapping spines with sickening perfection, till at last we stand alone and he's turning to me before another wave of guards come to take his attention. 

"Do you still feel the same?" he growls, bearing in on me, with his mouth a crazy, blood smeared grin. He reeks of death and I attempt to draw away. "See what vile creature you've proclaimed love to, Harry! See to what foul being you have trusted your life," he hisses, whipping round at the sound of a footstep. And the blood is flowing again, staining the floor until I don't see faces or hear screams, just fall in on myself among the wreckage of limbs and hide my face in my hands. 

And pray for this to be over. 

III. 

Cabron never shows himself. Men as powerful as he are not so without reason, and he barricades himself in an unused room and counts the virus and guards as loses. The hallways are scattered with the bodies of Muggles and half bloods and, yes, the occasional stain of pureblood before Snape recalls himself and approaches me where I am curled in on myself, hidden among death. 

"Je t'aime," he murmurs in my ear and I feel like I am waking up again. "Time to go." There's still work to be done. 

Snape breaks through the door using a handful of pilfered wands, one of which, he assures me, is mine. And I'll get it back as soon as I look sane again. Meanwhile, he's busy. You know. Saving the world and stuff. That virus. Yeah. I feel like ripping off my skin, just looking at him is enough to make my stomach turn inside out. So I say, "I'll wait outside," and smile, "while you're working." 

"Sorry, I need your help," he flicks a lock of red hair from his black eyes, seeming truly not all that apologetic. "If the things been freed I'll need you to help me catch it." 

"But won't they have put it back in the jar?" My voice sounds absurdly screechy to me. 

"Yes, but it's still awake. They won't have known the spells to put it back into stasis." He grabs my hand in his slippery red one, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from grimacing or pulling back or screaming. Luckily, he releases me quickly, perhaps realizing that this is pure torture for me. "Please, Harry, trust me." 

Trust me, he says. But I asked for this, really. I brought it on myself. I'm stained with the same blood as him. And to pull away now would be childish. My blood stained saviour, I call him in my mind, and follow him into the room with a sense of dread. 

Everything is as it was before, the low table with its unbuckled straps, the bright lights…I cringe involuntarily at the memories rushing back to me, and at first I think I'm just imagining the smell. But Snape is grimacing an ugly scowl, so I know it must be real. That thing is loose, or at least alive, and the sooner we get it done with the better. 

"Here!" Snape vanishes behind a shelf for a moment, then reappears holding the murky jar, which, horrifically enough, appears to be struggling in his arms. He sets it down on the table. "Okay, when I open the jar, reach in and get the fetus. Don't argue, don't get squeamish, just grab it, pull it out, pin it down and hold it still while I kill it." 

"What about your tools?" I can't believe I'm actually arguing this. 

"We don't have time for that! I'll use a spell. Like I did in your seventh year." He licks his lips nervously. "It's difficult. And draining. Most wizards couldn't do it once and walk away unharmed; I doubt if any could do it twice. That's why the vaccination was so vital, no one would be able to do this six times and stay standing. Afterwards I'll be drained, you know, so it's up to you to keep this room secure. If there is any sign of danger I want you to apparate, understood?" 

"I won't leave you," I insist. "Not again. If I'm going you're going with me." 

For a moment he looks adamant, but the jar between us gives a jolt and his jaw relaxes a little. "Alright. Okay. Whatever. Just…let's do this now?" I nod. "Okay, get ready…" The lid parts from the jar with a sickeningly wet pop and, holding my breath, I reach forward and stick my hands in. 

The damned thing is biting me! I feel its teeth sinking into my skin, and the wave of fever I felt before comes crashing back, slightly dimmed now. The vaccine is doing its work and my immune system seems to be holding out. Still, I don't want to test this further. Closing my eyes I wrench the thing out and slam its back against the table, gagging at the slimy gurgle it emits in protest. 

Snape's talking too fast for me to understand, all in a language I don't understand. It's not Latin; none of the words are familiar. His eyes glimmer dark and lustrous when I open mine, and the creature is writhing now, screeching in my hands and scratching with its tiny fingernails. Its half formed tail gives a halfhearted flop and then there's a burst of light and that near forgotten stench of rotting underwater death, and I'm holding nothing down and Snape is staggering under the weight of the spell and the magical backlash. He went through this once before, I know, but it takes a little more each time. 

There's a clamor in the hallway. You'd think they'd see the carnage and stop coming. Snape's eyes flash toward me, and I run around the table to his side, pulling him closer to me and holding him up in an awkward embrace.   
  
"Get out of here," he whispers furiously. "You can't make it back to England carrying me." 

I shake my head. "We made it here together and that's how we're leaving, Snape." And then I amaze even myself and kiss him, blood stained lips and all. Oh, and I somehow manage the energy needed to transport us both back to my flat in London, but most importantly I kiss him. And he surrenders to me, all the long way home, clutching feverishly at my filthy robes, getting blood all over me so the taste is even clinging in my mouth when I pull away at last. I don't care one bit. 

* * * 

I wake up lying on my couch with Galatea on my chest, her green eyes blinking inquisitively down at me. She gives a satisfied meow before leaping off me, and I remain for a moment more, trying to remember what's going on. The clock on the wall reads three PM and everything is silent. 

Too silent, I realise, and jump up. Where the fuck is Snape? He was with me when I got here last night, I know. I put him in my room, and if anything happened to him…if Aurors came, or Cabron…but I'd have heard them! I'd have woken up, I'd have… 

"I'm right here," comes his velvet voice as he steps out of the kitchen, clean and stainless, and I feel my lungs start working again. "I made you some coffee." 

I take the proffered mug with utter, inexpressible gratitude and take a deep gulp as he sits down next to me. It tastes like ambrosia, and I'm mindful lest I suffer a caffeine-induced orgasm in front of the company. "I thought you'd gone." 

"Without thanking you? That would be rude." He sips his own mug of coffee. "Arienette can wait a little bit longer." 

"It's really over though?" I have to ask. 

He smiles softly. I think about how strange it is that I'm almost used to him this young. "Yes, Harry. It's really over now. All of it. And I promise not to darken your doorway with my ungodly influence anymore." He leans in and runs his tongue quickly across my mouth. "You saved the world again." 

I shake my head. "No, but I helped you. You did need me." 

"Of course I did." That smile again. 

"And you might need me again! What if something happens? What if Cabron-" 

"He won't be an issue," Snape assures me. "I'd know he was coming before he did, and he'd be easy enough to avoid. I'll be alright." 

"But I…" I'm finding it hard to explain what I'm thinking, here. "I won't see you again. If you leave now, shut that door behind you and never look back, then it'll be like you're taking me with you. There's so much of you in me, or so much of me in you. Please…" I have to tell him. "I love you." 

"Harry," he sighs, setting his coffee on the floor. I follow suit. "I can't take you. I can't keep you. You know that." 

"No, no. You can tell me where to meet you, and I'll find you like I said I would, and this time things'll be different. Please! You know what it's like, without you here. I need you," I whisper. "I need you." 

My eyes are lowered to rest on the floor, the discarded plate of cold pizza, the coffee steaming pleasantly, the mystery stains in the carpet. I hear him stand up though. "I'm sorry," he says, and draws my eyes up like some spell. I try for a weak smile. 

"You'll be back." 

He shakes his head, a curtain of black obscuring his face. "I don't think so." 

"You say that now, but I know that you will," I tell him. "Something always comes up, and it won't be the first time. You'll come back eventually." 

"But not today," he says. 

My breath catches in my chest. "Promise to look back?" gets past the lump in my throat. 

"Always," he sighs, and then walks to the door and pulls it closed behind him in a silent way more final than any slamming door. And I can wait forever, I know, and he'll never come walking back to dry my tears anymore. So I rush to the window, and try to see him as he walks away, an impeccable figure washed clean of his dirty past, in black upon black that he's conjured with a power that I can't even begin to understand as I watch him sink into the gloaming. 

He looks back just before turning the corner, and he's so far away, but I swear that he sees me, for he lifts just one hand and salutes to my window before vanishing into the crowd. 

* * * 

"Harry!" Alarbus claps me in a hug the instant he sees me at work next Monday. My wounds are all healed, and my smile is genuine as I throw my arms around his neck. "We were all so worried!" 

Ron, sitting on my desk with a grin, looks less than worried. But then, he's already seen me a few times since my return. Still, he says, "Yeah, man, we thought you'd run off to be Snape's evil sidekick." 

I laugh. "Fat chance. Snape wouldn't want me for a sidekick in a thousand years! Besides," I huff, "I'd want to be in charge." 

"Well, it's great to have you back," Ron says, standing up and moving to the door. "We'll have to throw you a homecoming party." He notes my wince with a grin. "I'll have Seamus start planning." 

"Fuck off, Ron!" I yell at his retreating back, then smile and drop my eyes to my desk with a sigh. Things have been strange, but not entirely awful. Nothing like a tour of malicious pureblood wizarding estates to cure depression. 

"Um, Harry?" Alarbus clears his throat. 

I look up with a grin. "Yeah?" 

"If you want to get together anytime…" 

"I'd love to," I answer. "How about a drink after work?" 

He beams. "Okay. I'll come down and get you then?" I nod, still smiling. "Great! See you then," he smiles and a few seconds later I'm alone. 

Part of me feels like I'm cheating on Snape. Part of me feels like I'm betraying his trust. But it's like he said, I have to get on with my life. I'm not him, and I can't just slide from country to country like some displaced Don Juan. I am, by nature, quixotic, and I can't help thinking that Alarbus is just my kind of guy. Maybe not forever. Maybe not for years and years. But at least for now. At least until he comes back. 

Because he's coming back. He is. He may go back to her, and spend another year or two creating havoc by her side. He may even leave her and find someone new. I know he's not exclusively mine, the same way he knows that more of his heart belongs to me than to anyone else. We'll meet again, in this blinding country of youth, whether he knows it yet or not. 

~ fin   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


AN: The "King of your heart in the blind days" lines are from a poem by Dylan Thomas called This Side of Truth, as is the reference to the "blinding country of youth" in the last paragraph. Giving credit so I don't get sued is fun. Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it. Thank you to everyone who reviewed! ~Armand   
  
  
  
  



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